God sees everything

God sees everything, yes he do. God knows things that you don’t. God knows what you dream. He sees you taking the Valerian an hour before bed so you will be guaranteed your little sleep. He feels the way you sit up in bed in the dark meditating it all away, or how you hope to; your fears that you won’t be loved, that everyone else will find the love, love like Easter eggs, the prettiest ones, while you will find the plain and cracked ones, discarded, not sought after, not special.

God sees everything.

He sees how all you want, when your husband finally finishes his sitting is to be held, held like you are loved. You want protection and love and you want your husband to bring it to you, a man who has spent a weekend with a former ballerina, a beautiful woman who you call sister, who you encouraged your husband to pursue, and he has, more than you could have imagined, and you’ve seen the beautiful photos to prove it; her naked body with its tangle of pubic hair, the medicine bundle around her neck, the one he’d given her and which they wore together, placing their wedding rings inside for safe keeping, even saying a prayer for their spouses who were also together, on the other side of the mountain beginning their own ascent, their own juicy pilgrimage, but through sake and tiny crabs that were meant to be eaten whole, claws and all.

Sees how you reach now under your husband’s pajama bottoms for his penis. Sees you grasping it, inching it to come alive, watches you, feels the ache in you, wonders as you do, why, why you’re doing this, what exactly you’re after.

Is it the sex? The penis? Is it about the loneliness? The photos of the ballerina? Is it because you love this man and because he has asked you to prove it? Is this how you will find the something you’re looking for? Because you are searching, aren’t you? You’re looking for something.

And he loves it. Your husband loves having his cock stroked. He’s moaning and getting hard and you know how to do it, the way he likes it. You lubricate your hand even more; you don’t stop.

You’re lying on your side and your face is drawn. You’re certain that your lover, if that’s what you want to call him. Your boyfriend, your friend, your brother…that man across the bay who brought you to orgasm with his own hand and mouth on Saturday night, and who you also delivered with your own tongue on Sunday as he stood above you after the dance and the shower, still wet and sucking and the way he came in your mouth and how tender you were with him.

You’re not that tender with your husband tonight. Your hand isn’t on his chest. You’re not feeling his moans, how much you love what you’re doing. What you’re doing doesn’t make you happy like it did when your lover shook with pleasure. No, you’re separate from this. And it’s not like you want him to finish and get off because it’s not about him, is it? It’s about you and you feel sure this is what a sex addict must feel like; removed from what she does, but needing it all the same, needing it.

When he asks you to climb on top of him you do and at first it’s slow, the way he likes it, and then you find your rhythm and you begin to fuck him.

God sees this too.

Hard, and with a kind of pounding which is the way you like it, which is the way your lover likes it, which is partly what you love about him, that he knows how to grab you, rip off your pants and enter you without asking.

Afterwards, after he comes so hard and deep that he is shaking his head from side to side, your husband says it felt almost like you were angry and you say no, you say, I was just fucking you, just fucking you. And god sees this too.