Beyond the Ninth Wave

They say time is unhurried in a place like this. That, or it doesn’t move at all. If you’re lucky, the outside world will wait for you while you take your pleasure. But mostly you don’t care. Not now at least. There are no celestial playmates outside the window or troublesome wall clocks. There is no time, only Dark, who urges you to take greedily His hours and His quiet because what is here is forbidden and secret. If you’re lucky, the outside world will be asleep when you steal away into rosy Dawn.

I know morning’s far away; I’ve trained my bones to feel it. And I know it’s cold--been cold all month.

He has eyes like Puck. They’re staring down at me, another pale fey creature, cocooned in his black sheets. We’re veiled by red satin, tied back neatly with black bows. He didn’t bother to light incense, but there’s smoke wafting from the Camel Filter he’s dangerously close to ashing on my naked chest. Instead, he puts it out and smiles down at me as if to say: Did you think I’d let that happen to you? Not a chance.

It’s fitting I encountered him on Samhain. How else could I reach such a place, except when the worlds are so achingly close that one might step through a mist or a front door and be lost in wonder? And what type of creature could lead me to such a place except him? An untrained eye wouldn’t notice him among the larger, more boisterous men who grumble like giants. Their skin is still virginal, but his is adorned with primal art in almost all places, indicating a life lived. No pristine creature could lead me here. It could only be him.

He kisses me, but it’s not the long-sensual thing of a satyr. It’s short, and when he pulls back, I catch him smiling at me with his bright eyes still closed. I don’t have to look down to know a decorated and very well-used finger is pulsing in between my legs. It would be so easy to slip it in, but he likes teasing.

So I find the most sensitive crevice of his neck--where the ink stops and pinkish skin starts--and nibble it. I kiss my way to the very edge of his mouth. It would be so easy to slip it in, but I like teasing.

There’s a lot to be said for places like this. Or men like this. Impish men, like the one pressing his cock against me but never fully going in, will give as much as they receive--even more. They won’t mind stained sheets or bruises or scars because they’re too engaged wrapping their arms around your thighs and flicking your insides with their tongues. I say this: just give your being to them while Dark still offers them. They’ll leave in the morning, true to their nature.

We’re like this when we finish: I’m bent over, face smothered in the hot, black sheets, hair soft and wild from being pulled, panting and flushed. He stands behind me holding his cock and glistening with cum and sweat and the purest satisfaction I’ve ever seen.

As we clean up, cigarettes dangling from our tired mouths, he offers a smile. It makes me swell with lust and tenderness. I remind myself to think of a word for it.

The world outside doesn’t care about that look he gives me. It doesn’t care for the single, cursive word he engraved above my slit or the way we can fall asleep still completely tangled in each other’s limbs--his head on my belly and mine on his chest like real-life Geminis and Pisces mirroring each other’s small, fey dealings.

Dawn comes from beyond the veil. It creeps into the otherworld like it doesn’t want to but is duty-bound by a jealous god. I get up to light incense, as if I faltered to also sacrifice a bull to Aphrodite, and when the room is still mostly seeped in darkness, I see his eyes open.

I smell me all over him--opium, sweat. Then I feel him inside me, and I realize we’re going to surrender our single hour of sleep for a word I can’t name. But I’m only a traveler here, so I must be careful not to eat or drink what he gives me. The world outside moves.

They say a mortal can become vexed in places like this. They say a mortal can lay enchanted here while the world turns and, slowly, slowly, forgets him.

I’ve never felt so absolute in this pleasure. He enters me over and over until I swear I’m not longer on his isle but on the shore of it, beating against it with perfect rhythm. There is never enough of him inside me and I can’t think of a better way to yield Dark’s last hours than finding ways to make that possible.

Then, in a rebellion of my spirit, I say: let the world forget me.

A/N: Typically, the ninth wave was the border between the mortal world and the otherworld. Avalon, for instance, is beyond the ninth wave. I sort of wrote this as an ode to a tattooer I dated as well as to explore certain themes. Thanks for reading!