Only When It Rains

by Rose B. Thorny © 2009

Why it happens only when it rains, I have no idea.

Well, that isn't totally accurate.  I have a few thoughts on it, but it doesn't really matter.  I don't actually care, and no one else would understand, so it's of no consequence.

In the winter, when it snows, it doesn't feel the same at all.  Perhaps, because it is just too cold and cold is invasive, cruelly invasive.  Or perhaps, because, in the snow, I would leave behind footprints, evidence, and my mind has made that adjustment to facilitate self-preservation.

In the winter, I like to closet myself.  Push the doors tight against the gusting winds and freezing draughts, frame the windows in heavy drapes so I may observe the drifting white fall of chiffon snow without actually feeling its frigid caress, watch the sweep of wind-driven flurries, and listen to the crystalline glissandos of sleet against the glass, without suffering the needles of icy pain piercing my skin.

In the winter, I like to build a fire in the wood stove and kneel before it to warm my hands.

I like crumpling the old news and tossing it onto the blackened, ash-stuccoed iron grate and building little pyres of kindling over it.  I arrange them, just so, tiny wooden structures, like frail stick houses that a huffing, puffing big, bad wolf might blow down without a second thought. What a silly tale; fire is so much more effective, so effortless by comparison, and so much more gratifying.

I clasp the box of wooden matches in one hand.  Sometimes, I think of them as lucifers, a name by which they're still known, the reason for such a name being apparent to anyone familiar with brimstone, black magic and the fires of hell. God and his minions—or are they cohorts?—are delightfully inventive in their destructive tortures.  They know how to create and feed the punishing flames.

The match rasping against the encrusted side of the box offers a gritty, satisfying sound and the flaring tip excites me.

I gasp every time kindling ignites.

I peer into the flames, grip the poker and jab at the dry fuel.  It pops and snaps.  I imagine piles of brittle old bones being crushed underfoot in some ancient, cavernous crypt.  As the inferno expands, waves of heat envelope me. The fire crackles with the intensity of ravenous, snapping jaws and I'm mesmerized by the darting orange and yellow tongues licking at the hapless wood, devouring it.  The little house is in ruins, but the fire is alive, searching.

I feed it.  Showers of sparks explode; a beast straining to free itself, to gorge on fare more sumptuous and juicier than dead wood.

When the blaze is roaring, when I have it controlled and contained within that iron prison, I stand and turn my back to it.  Can I trust it not to consume me?

I slip off the clothing covering my legs, let the garments fall and rest around my feet.  The heat assaults my buttocks, seeks ingress, and I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and contemplate what I do once winter is past, when the rains come.

In the winter, in my house, the urge to venture forth and indulge does not overcome me.  Oh, it's there.  I cannot deny that.  It's alive, I can feel it, but quiescent, germinating.  The anticipation builds and I let it.

I think about my bliss and the heat radiates.  My gut clenches, tingles.  The frisson spreads lower and I get hot between my legs.  Hot and wet.

_______
© 2009 Rose B. Thorny. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Who is Rose B. Thorny? Read her bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.

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