Bringing her to my room, the first girl to sleep in my bed since I bought it - the first girl to sleep in my room since I moved in, a year ago - and the shifts in our connection are immediately apparent.

I slept in her bed last week, twice, with little inclination in me for things sexual. Yet with her laying on my futon, I recalled that she was a woman, and I a... well, you get the point - she was desirable, and I desired her.

We lay perpendicular, her head against the north wall, supported by my feather pillow, my head resting on a bunch of blankets, just beneath the west window. The night was unusually warm. We had just returned from a dinner party, and such was out course that I can say it was one of the best evenings of my stay here in Portland, which if it were not for her, I would probably have never moved to.

I laid my hand on her arm, below her elbow, and stroked her almost too-soft skin with my fingers, whispering “I remember when I was in high school and I went on this weekend youth group retreat and my first girlfriend and I made out in the rain, completely livid and overwhelmed by that strumming our bodies made together—I remember on our ride back home, in this football-team-sized van packed tight with high schoolers and horny youth pastors and she spent the ride touching my face for two hours straight and I could feel every touch she made, every movement of her hand, and I have never been able to feel that perfection again, but it was perfect what she did.”

She smiled, we connected eyes, my hand no longer moving, but resting on her shoulder gently, my eyes following her body, her beautiful body I could see with eyes neither pornographic nor obscene but melodious-erotic drifting over every curve and slope as her hand made an arc from her ear to her belly.

What happened? We moved. The lights were dimmed, my pants were taken off, the covers were placed over us. She did not speak. We moved, the furiousness seeping from my heart that I swear sometimes is a yoni wide open and bleeding sap for whatever presence excites it. We moved in tangential and muffled concentrations until she was breathing hard and solid and deadweight beneath me, relieved as was I by the breaking or binding we had instigated. I lay on top of her, my hard force softening and sipping at her.

I rolled over, she took off her shirt.

“Good idea,” I said, removing mine. What fun to touch so much skin with all my skin that for over a year now hadn’t felt that charm distilled and terrible, that woman body, and we spooned but soon recovered rhythm, now not so emotional, more sexed up, more thrusting and rubbing and arching in unmitigated reproduction of all those things my mind has tried to trick itself into witnessing through the cheap dot matrixes of print and pixilated near truths of photography, but really hasn’t known, has never known, not even now, because even though they cannot be forgot, those touches remain their own, locked safe inside the experience, within the drawing of the two. And there we lay like cards flipping random and folding through their cheats just blind enough to make sense of the absurdity of sex.

I laughed. She asked me why. I told her why. I told her I felt I could demolish sheet rock with my penis. I wanted to take myself, display myself to her, put myself in her hands, let her feel my force, my frictive solidarity, the pounding violent extension of my source, my anti-muse, my reaching wanting toward inspiration.

Drifting in and out of dreams all night. Such dreams you cannot let return with you to waking life. Such images which shrivel either the sun or in the sun. It’s not likely that my rights extend too far towards owning her: I know I cannot have her. But sating myself with her reception reflection dawning origin I know something now that no body else will ever know. That is the meaning of a secret. I can share it, and you can hear it, but it remains forever mine.