Even before I open my eyes, I know that I've woken on the wrong side of town, again. My sheets aren't this soft. These must be million-thread count of Egyptian cotton that only grows in four square acres of the Nile delta, in odd numbered years. Beyond the closed bedroom door, a grinder burrs, but like everything in his world, it's a soft, luxurious sound. He opens a cabinet. Two mugs rasp against the kitchen counter. Footsteps head toward the bedroom door. Snuggling deeper under the cover unleashes a cloud of man and sex scents that go right to my cock. I could spend all day in this cocoon. The door opens. He brings the scent of coffee in with him, erasing the night's excesses. The bedroom suddenly feels claustrophobic, crowded with bodies, and I can't breathe under the dense heat of the covers. Time to get a good look at what I thought I saw last night. Sighing, I toss back the bedspread and sit up, scratch my hair into a sexy mess, and sheepishly smile at my sugar step-daddy.
A human being is only breath and shadow. Sophocles
Breathing is an autonomic function. Like digestion and pupil dilation, it happens without involving the higher functions of the brain. But unlike the other autonomic functions, we have brief control over it. It may be that interrupted breathing is so expressive because it is a matter of life and death for us to eventually continue. Or maybe I over think it.
My characters sigh a lot. It may be because I'm a method writer, meaning that when my characters are distraught, I'm distraught with them, when they're elated, I'm over the moon, and when they need to express emotions too complex or nebulous for words, we sigh together. We sigh our unspoken regrets, our hopelessness, our resignation. We also hold our breath, for a moment, as if we can suspend time. Maybe something so wonderful is happening that we want it to last forever. Or we can see something horrible coming our way. It's a crutch though, one I'm trying to overcome. Too much sighing is like putting a character onto a fainting couch. Too many held breaths, and it begins to read like autoerotica. Maybe I should explore heart beats or perspiration.
Heart skipping a beat, I toss back the bedspread and sit up, scratch my hair into a sexy mess, and sheepishly smile at my sugar step-daddy.
Sweating seductively, I toss back the bedspread and sit up, scratch my hair into a sexy mess, and sheepishly smile at my sugar step-daddy.
Or maybe not.