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No Touching

No touching. That’s what we’d decided, before truly realizing, as we do know, how hard this would be.

We’ve lived together for two years and our wedding’s in two days, and we haven’t “touched,” I mean REALLY TOUCHED in two months. A brief, pecking kiss here; a quick hand squeeze there, yes, but not more. Pretty much just like business associates or brother and sister.

So, no lingering embraces, no handsy petting, not even lengthy handholding because, with this promise to ourselves, all of that becomes unbearable at a point; all those handsy, lingering, touchy-feely things clearly lead a woman and a man far astray to break from the kind of celibate pledge we’ve made to each other, and ourselves, after two and a half years of close, physical intimacy.

But we’d decided, in full mutual, sober agreement, to refrain from “close, physical intimacy” these last long, frustrating months. Two entire months. Sixty-one days. One thousand, four hundred, sixty-four hours. Infinite minutes. An infinity of seconds.

Not that we haven’t had intimacy, still.

Touching isn’t required of intimacy and we know that, but having to now focus on what it truly is forces the cold, academic outline into actual tangible physicality and warm, sometimes weeping, emotion, making it painful, obvious, and utterly frustrating.

I mean, it’s looking deep into the soul in another’s eyes and truly seeing THEM, not just their tasty body. It’s REALLY hearing and feeling the true tone and meaningful inflections behind our words, spoken with many feelings shaded in many colors, now fully laced with unfulfilled innuendo, without physical end.

Saying, “Stop being a wuss! Just stick your hand in the turkey and stuff the darn thing,” can now make us stop and blush and then fall out in intense, rapturous giggles for a shamefully long time. Culminating in wistful sighs and breathlessness and an understanding of being on a special level together, with only us.

One more day. Twenty-four hours. One thousand four hundred forty minutes. Eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds.

The rehearsal and rehearsal dinner were a strain on the nerves, so close, but no cookie. Or nookie.

Love watching the TV show “Pushing Daisies.” It has our theme; of not touching and yet having a close intimate relationship, discovering other things besides “where’s your darn G-spot.” But all this is making us more antsy, minus the “P Daisies” part about touching equals permanent death.

But then again, philosophically or metaphysically, isn’t sensuous touching and sex without conscious loving intent, on some agreed upon level, “permanent death”?

Okay, I have a lot of time on my hands, instead of him.

But, really, how many friends and family or whomever on Dr. Phil and Iyala Van Sant, or Dr. Drew’s have you heard say or sigh with loaded implication that their sex life is empty, unfulfilled, boring, repetitive, mindless even. Do it, roll over, and sleep. Do it, roll over, and leave for work. Whatever.

Thoughtless, without full awareness.

But now, with us, it’s as if we’re in full, longing awareness of our skin and the scents of our warm flesh, the touch of curly hair or straight, the difference in small hand and large, or the simple curve and elegant turn of the neck and throat, whether mine or my lover’s, soon to be spouse. Every part of him, everything he does, I so cherish right now.

How many more hours, minutes, and seconds, please?


Our wedding was beautiful. Our wedding was uplifting as we bound ourselves in spirit and emotion, one to the other. Our wedding was interminable. It lasted FOREVER, it seemed. Aisle walking, songs, candles lit, bridesmaids, groomsmen, flower girl, ring boy—who dropped the pillow and a frenetic search ensued for rolled away rings.

Found. Thank you.

Wind it up, please, we both clearly thought as I looked at him and he at me and we subsequently glared at the minister, who chimed on in sonorous, peaceful tones about wah-wah-wah-wah-waah.

That’s what we both heard. We knew what was being said, the rehearsal had informed us and we’d written the ceremony ourselves, yet we pretty much just heard wah-wah, etcetera; and made wide-eyed motions of when can we rip off each other’s clothes and consummate this “fine, spiritual union” in the hot flesh already?

Spirit needs spirit, mind meets mind, and my body NEEDS his body, and vice versa. Stat. But....

We were in a place of religious worship, that doesn’t include bodily worship. What a shame. Perverse to think, perhaps, but if it is glorious to marry, then it should be glorious to consummate. But....

The reception was across town, and no one would leave until we did, so they could pelt us with rice and such, but, he said, “We need a moment, she’s crying.”

I was not, but I abruptly faked that I was, as he hustled me into the annex vestry, and locked the door.

He smiled, a devil’s smile. I smiled like no angel ever did and raised my long, satin skirt seductively high above my silk stocking tops, and then he dropped his‑.




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