How it Works

“Um, the curriculum?” The word sounded even more out of place in the scenario than “dead skin cells” had. “Meditation, martial arts, a hundred years or so of intensive interpersonal training.”

“No, I mean, I got that. But how does this work?” She was looking at, touching, and licking the skin of my belly. “How does that equal this?”

“It just does. That’s—that’s how it works. Mind and body becoming one. Even just saying that one is ‘that’ and the other is ‘this’ is contradictory.” The explanation, at least, was too automatic, too ingrained, to feel dissonant to me, any more than saying my own name might have been.

“So when I touch you here—” the spot she chose brought the generalized shivering and tingling she’d been effecting to a concentrated center of intensity. I let out an involuntary gasp and bit my lip. “—I’m really touching your mind.”

I’d never thought of it that way, but it worked for me. “Sure,” I answered, though it was becoming harder to articulate intelligible syllables as her fingers continued caressing and massaging my, um, mind. Her attitude was oddly clinical while she did, as if she were conducting an experiment, which actually aroused me further.

“And yeah, your body changes, but your mind just keeps developing. You’ve been you for—god, longer than I can imagine. And that’s inscribed on your skin, no matter how many layers you’ve gone through, no matter how flawless your complexion is. Your body reflects your mind. I guess you’d say it is your mind. And that I’m fucking your mind right now?”

My breathing had accelerated, and I had no way to voice agreement with her. It would have to wait a few minutes. Damn, but had she ever been so good before? It was hard to say. Anything was hard to say. Hearing her describe me in words I’d never thought to use only made the sensations stronger, more stimulating. I’ve had partners who felt that too much talk during sex spoiled the mood, unless it consisted of interjections and exclamations like Oh, yeah, and Right there!, but I find language the sexiest means of sexual communication. When finally her beautiful fingers had completed their research project and I was coming down from a most exquisite high, she answered her own speculation. “Good. That means we’re even.”

She neither rolled over nor pulled me in closer. She just moved her hand to a more chaste spot on my shoulder, and in a matter of minutes her breath had taken on the regular rhythm of sleep. Before, I had thought I was too tired to be a good lover, and now I was kept awake by a sense of awe at Jeanine’s genius. Of course, an almost literal mindfuck was not equivalent to the figurative mindfuck I had dealt her earlier in the evening. On that level, we were certainly not even, at least not without the promised pancakes and mimosas. But as far as living lessons were concerned, I was impressed. For this woman, I would take a stake in the heart every night of the week.

The Same Skin

It was nearly three in the morning, and I was tired enough just to collapse. I undressed without turning on the light, slipped between the covers, and was momentarily surprised to find Jeanine already there. I had actually forgotten about her and about leaving my drama with her behind in pursuit of non-Jeanine-related drama a couple of hours ago. I had so thoroughly expected her to be gone by now that when I pulled the sheets apart and felt her warm body roll toward me, I had to remember for a second who it might be. Her shape and her feel were unmistakable, though.

“You’re still here,” I said softly.

“Mm. And you’re back.” She wrapped her arm around me and coiled a leg around one of mine. This was not the distraught girlfriend I had abandoned. I got the feeling I wouldn’t have to butter her up, but it still wouldn’t hurt. I found her waist with my hand and felt the outline of her ribs underneath her t-shirt.

“Yeah. I’m sorry about before. You know that, right? I’m gonna make it up to you tomorrow with a huge brunch and—ooh, how about mimosas? And I can tell you what happened tonight.”

“You can make it up to me right now.” Her hand had found my face, and she was running her fingers down from my forehead to my throat. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I could see her studying my features in a way I wasn’t used to from her.

“I can,” I agreed. Ordinarily, I hate making love when I’m sleepy, but I knew this was Jeanine’s time. I also knew that either my guilt about before or my confusion about her change of temperament would keep my energy up. “What did you do while I was gone?”

“Went through your stuff. Books, journals, that album—”

“My genealogy?”

“Must’ve been. I got to know you while you were out.” And she was getting to know me now. Her hands, now tracing determined paths in every direction along my unclothed body, were touching not in order to pleasure me but to learn me. “I couldn’t wait for you to come back.”

“So you’re not mad anymore?”

“Oh, of course I am. I stayed because I wanted to feel you.” I began to move my own fingers along her sensitive areas, to reciprocate, but she said, “No. I want to feel you.” She pulled my hands away from her body and lifted them above my head. Gently, she held my fingers with one hand while the other resumed its exploration. “I want to touch your skin and its five hundred years.”

Knowing it would compromise the moment but not knowing what else to say, I pointed out, “Well, you know, it’s not the same skin I had…”

“Oh, I know. Dead skin cells slough off, get replaced, I know. Mine’s not the same I always had either. But you know what I mean. It’s still you.” Her lips had begun to assist her hands, and I lost all reason to complain. “How does it work?” she paused to ask.