Consolation

by Jean Roberta

Strangely enough, no one here has recommended – or at least described -- a masturbation marathon as a way of consoling oneself after a breakup. (Cough) I thought this was a traditional remedy, somewhat like chicken soup for a cold.

During a long winter, life outdoors, in the dating scene (heterosexual, gay, lesbian, bi) can be harsh. Sometimes a person just wants to spend a few months in a warm bed, with herself.

Here is a quickie that I wrote long ago, when I still had fresh memories of being freshly-dumped and forlorn. I sent it in for the Do It Yourself contest run by Torquere Press in 2004, and it won first prize.

Hibernation

The moon is full tonight. I can’t see it shining on the billows of snow outdoors, but I know they look like the curves of a voluptuous woman, sparkling like a queen's jewels. I want to remember all the words of that French song: my country is winter. Je suis une citoyenne de l’hiver.

I can’t sleep, even though my comforter is as warm and soft as the sympathy of an old friend. Tara’s last words are like an annoying song in my head: “You’re not really my type. You can’t meet my needs. Let’s face it. I’m not putting you down, but you have to admit it.” Her canned speech was meant to justify her escape, so she could rush into the arms of Bo the jock, heartthrob of the under-thirty crowd. I wonder how long the new couple will last.

If the three of us were stranded in the northern woods, I wonder who would survive. My womanly body can withstand the cold, and I have good instincts. Weightlifter’s muscles and cuteness don’t catch fish or muskrats or rabbits. Political correctness and popularity don’t count in a life-or-death situation. Some women have lived such trendy urban lives that they never get to meet their true selves.

A warm heart behind warm breasts always counts, or it should. I would appreciate a woman with my qualities. I would hold a woman like that with all my strength, and not let her go. I could live in a cave with a woman like me, exploring her body like an old-time voyageur ranging over the True North. Pressed against her in our bed, I would start with her breasts.

Tits like mine deserve hands like mine: knowing hands that can support them, making them feel weightless but generous. The homage of those hands would send tingles from the flash-points of my hard nipples through my warm flesh, over my ribs and all up and down the central power line of my spine. My belly would flutter, and my clit would turn on like a lightbulb.

In the short days and long nights of winter, I could spend months in bed with a woman like me. We would not give a damn about the world outside, and we wouldn't lose interest in each other like bored children looking for new toys.

My old, favorite toys would give us endless pleasure. I wouldn't even mind getting out of bed to look through my sock drawer for my thick purple candle with the undulating shape that looks like a Coke bottle on speed. A woman like me would love to be stroked with a thing like that, and she wouldn't care what it was made for. Women like me are household witches who can make magic out of anything that comes to hand.

Wax grows warmer and softer when you play with it, almost like human flesh. My candle is more responsive than some women. More reliable too. Rubbing it between my lower lips makes me feel as if I'm melting and changing shape inside.

I want to be filled to bursting by someone like me. I can smell my own heat, and it warms the space between my sheets like some essential oil. My candle absorbs more of me each time. Someday it will smell more like me than I do, and then I can share it with a woman who will appreciate it whenever I can't be with her.

I am the butch and the femme, the doer and the done-to. The right woman would value my versatility. I am persistent. I'm almost there. Just a little more -- oh! Yes! I am so good for me.
How I wish I could hibernate in my cozy suite until spring. I'm not sure the rest of the world is ready for me yet.
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