Listening

the ultimate gift

He doesn’t know I’ve already bought them, I’ve already said yes.

He’s a yes man, he taught me that. So I said yes!

Actually, when he calls me, his beautiful multi-lettered name splays out hungry on my phone, lighting up my life & my eyebrows & my cheeks & my heart right in front of the counter clerk at the store, where - actually, what I’m buying is a thirteen dollar toque.

(I lost my old favourite toque last weekend in Vancouver, during an ecstatic karaoke experience at a pub called Funky Winker Beans - and I’m still not even sure it was worth it, given how much I loved that toque. This one is nice though - a close second. A gentleman’s second.)

His beautiful voice lights up my moment, sounding a little higher and fresher even than in person, if that’s even possible.

I have a chance to say his name aloud, which delights and thrills me. I get a little shiver saying it. My cunt throbs. Immediately I want him.

In my ear, his voice sounds very clear, like a bell.

I like bells - I can hear them.

I have a moderate to profound bilateral hearing loss, which is a funny surprise to most clients and lovers when they’re nuzzling my ears and then discover my hearing aids.

Yes I’m pretty deaf, and mostly I can’t hear your light moans and mumbled requests unless they’re distinctly uttered and with conviction. Hot, eh!?

So people, bells, music, trees, traffic - there is a whole fat numinous ubiquitous layer of sound missing in my world . . . unless I wear my hearing aids. My run-of-the-mill hearing aids.

The problem with cheap hearing aids is that they amplify everything. When I’m in a restaurant or club with a bunch of people, I lip-read ,cock an ear, and laugh when everyone else laughs. The receivers on the backsides of my hearing aids pick up all the nuances of conversations behind me. Music even loses all its complex layers of sound, becoming muddied and staticky.

---

So the yes man, he says, get the best ones. Of course.

I mean I’ve already said yes. I’m onto the toque now.

It’s his voice I love, the delight in it and every possibility. The reminder and memory of the countless hours we’ve spent in bed, where that voice asks me what I want, what I like, what I need. The voice that suggests all the fun and comfort and pleasure in the world.

But not only that. This sweet familiarity, a frequency that is only ours, one we’ve developed over numerous years now. It’s him - my gypsy lover, he’s been here awhile. Fuck, he’s been putting on the show. Who knew.

---

In a dream several months ago, someone came to me with the same eyes.

They looked so deep into me that it’s stupid to write about it. So deep I can’t talk about it without bursting into tears sometimes.

He gave long lineups of people, each person: a place, a role, and a set of clothes. I really hoped he would notice me and he did, right away, first. Like a queen. Recognized me with that look in those gypsy eyes.

Then finally - after everyone was gone - first, again, he looked deep into my eyes and my soul. Fuck. And he dressed me up in a rabbit costume taller than everyone else, in a pin-striped suit and erect fuzzy ears with a hat. I was walking on stilts.

(One day later, in real life, a motorcycle passed by with two people wearing helmets exactly like this, with erect fuzzy rabbit ears - yes, this is all connected to the divine cosmic intelligent principle continually at work in your life and mine. Come to me. But I digress.)

Anyway, I heard his voice and it encouraged every decision I ever made to be fully myself, and now, as of next week, I’ll be able to hear in a hundred frequencies that have so far been diminished for the past decade or more.

---

Later on in the day, we meet for lunch and a whiskey or two. He feeds me lunch as he has a few times this week. I’m hungry. He’s hungry.

We head to our spot, and he takes me on the edge of the couch.

First railing me from behind for a very long time, he grabs onto my waist with one hand and fondles my nipples with the other. I’m rubbing my clit, feeling him push into me. I love having the back of the couch to hang onto. I can take it like this endlessly, as long as my face is smothered in a pillow. I love how he strokes me like that. I need it. He does it to me so good.

Then he turns me over and opens my legs wide and pushes into me so hard and deep that I’m gushing and squirting all over his cock, spraying onto the floor and the white fluffy cushion where he kneels. It’s a little surprising but I guess to be expected because, as everyone knows, I only squirt for love.

---

I can’t stop. He can’t stop.

His dick always stays hard for me. For my cunt, for my mouth. For my eyes. For my everything.

We’re all up in each other, floating, rocking, his body all up in mine. I can’t help it, I want his cock in my mouth, I love to suck and lick him. I know he’s a little sensitive but he still lets me take it. He knows how much I love it. I have to have it. I need it.

He looks down at me.

My arms are up above my head, I can’t hear a damn thing.

All I can see is his beautiful gypsy face that I love, and his hot throbbing cock, and another orgasm spurting out all over my own face, coming in my wet mouth and all in my eyes, my hair, my titties. My eyes will be bloodshot all day with his cum.

I’m a right mess with him.

---

No, I haven’t showered yet.

I bet he hasn’t either.

---

Next week, I’ll have my new ears. I’ll be able to hear the blessed moans and whispered requests of every soul who knocks on my fleshy door. But most of all, his.

I’ll be able to sing in a million different tones and hear the songs of every endangered songbird on the Panama Flats.

I’ll be able to listen to music in the car without feeling like I’m underwater.

I’ll be able to hear a bit more of the texture of his voice when he’s calling me on the phone.

I said, yes. He says yes.

He’s got me listening, that’s for sure. Ears, eyes, legs wide open.

Heart wide open, listening.