Every once in a while, I’ll say to Parrot, “Read me a bedtime story.”
Ever since the first time we’ve been together, having him read erotica to me has been part of our quality time together. Sometimes, he might recite some of his favorite erotic poetry by Shakespeare, John Donne or Kenneth Rexroth. Sometimes he’ll indulge me with my favorite poet, Pablo Neruda. My favorite stories I love to hear him read are those he’s written, many of them written about us.
I can’t begin to say how the stories he’s written about us are the most incredible gifts I’ve ever received. It’s not that they’re celebrations of us and remembrances of our times together, but he is an incredibly beautiful writer. Every word is an expression of his talent and erotic soul. I can’t think of a man who has done anything more romantic for me or for any woman with the stories he has written.
He also has the sexiest voice, one that matches the luxuriously libidinous thoughts and words he puts to print. It’s smooth and creamy like pudding and as warm as a snifter of brandy. It’s filled with joyful lustfulness. It feels like he’s caressing every erogenous zone of my mind and body.
The other night, we had both settled in our beds, connected by Skype. He started reading a piece about how it feels for him when we make love. A flood of memories, feelings and sensations of almost every time we’ve had together came washing over me. He captured every single thought, movement, action, sensation that we share moment by moment. Even though he wrote this from his point of his point of view, I was reliving this encounter the same way I feel. It felt that real.
As he read, I couldn’t keep my hands off myself. It wasn’t much of stretch to feel as if my hands were his. He did the same.
Reading to me isn’t something that he feels is a demand or obligated to do. It’s a loving gesture that gratifies both of our desires, wants and needs. I appreciate and adore that he does this selflessly and willingly straight from his heart.