The difference between his hands and my own. No move of mine is made too quickly, because I want to be held in a state of anticipation. I guess you could say this is learned, because I have not always been this way. I know what I want. I want massages that slowly escalate. I want sex to mean something and I don’t want anyone to tell me what it must mean. We can spell it out ourselves, can’t we? I want to be left trembling. Every time. I want it to be like deep conversation. I want to sit before him and drag a spliff. My pace. Natural. A succession. I will ash into an abalone shell and link my fingers over my lap. Delicate fingers topped with long, natural nails painted like cherries. I only wear a few rings that sparkle before I speak. One of them I have worn since I was 15; a gold cobra dotted with diamonds and eyes of black onyx. Another, a simple gold band engraved in cursive ‘not to be fucked with.’ Always in gold and always with a story, I adore subtlety. For example, I like lipstick, but I’d prefer to drink two glasses of red wine and let the Pinot Noir stain my lips. And, I would never wear foundation. My face is painted with freckles, the occasional blemish is nothing to hide from. With a fresh face and fingers crossed, I will look at him. His are thicker. His palms spread across my thighs like kites, and dark, muscular veins protrude through his skin. I find the landscape of his hands to be beautiful. They’re more frantic than my own and in this way, I balance him. Lovers should never start frantic, but rather slowly give into love’s violence. Hairs grow past the wrist and decorate the tops of his hands. Mine are smooth. The same hot blood pumps through me that ravages him, yet I appear cool to the touch. “Take your time with me, “ I whisper. “Your voice…” I tell myself I won’t say another word. “The way you speak, it sounds like honey dripping all over your body. You’ve got one sexy voice.” Then he licks the tight skin of my neck, as if it will be honey he will taste. Slow, with eyes open, savoring every inch.  “There you go,” escapes with my breath. Sex and art are the same thing. Who, where, when and how I make love are sacred to me. Slow down and taste the honey.