Friday, July 24, 2009

Do you get the gist of the song now?

We're at a bar in downtown.

It's 1230 in the morning on a holiday weekend, the place is almost ours alone.

The music makes me crazy, makes me sway and swing, wishing to be dancing, wishing to be fucking up in a darkened hotel room, lit from the billboards and electric signs lining the buildings, occasional passing headlight swooping across walls decorated with unassuming art.

He's sitting to my right, brown eyes I could swim in, too intelligent. I do not know this yet, but when I find him the next morning, I'll stumble and fall into them for just a second, mentally wheeling backwards to gain bearing as I will forget their impact.

The pool is illuminated from the inside, a candle in the center of each table that line its rim, and multicolored lamps are spaced along the walls. This, this is mine. This is where I should be, and as a barely noticable breeze drifts through the opening patio doors and lifting hair away from my face, my body is set to humming.

His hands are on the table in front of me, incredibly long fingers, large palms. The bones of his wrists, his forearms exposed by the rolled up sleeves landing just below his elbows, I look, but don't touch.

No, don't touch.

We talk.

I make him nervous.

That's okay. It happens more often than not, these days. As I try more and more to accept myself, as consolidation begins, my scattershot personality starts to solidify into a unified character.

Or so I hope.

He talks.

I watch his face, watch his hands, his movements, posture and gesticulations as he gets caught up in stories and ideas, every so often reining himself in as he realizes that he's the one doing all the talking.

Silence has to be filled. I provide that space, when the desire takes me, which is always and in all ways.

I listen, and his stories pour over me. Words are my addiction, an internal (eternal?) void is filled.

Flood me, wash through me, lap at my edges and trickle over, breaking bonds and boundaries.

I lean back and inhale.

Through darkened doorways and blue-drenched halls our feet wander, over smooth bricks and painted ceramic tile, we dance. Down stairways and corridors filled with our murmured voices, tangled metal vines and my back is against the wall, hands sliding over his stomach, parting the folds of his unbuttoned shirt, silky warm flesh, my tongue travels over the landscape of his chest.

He raises me, pushing me up and back, balancing on my toes as I reach for his lips with my own, fingers trailing and digging into the skin of his back as we meet in the middle, quick diplomacy between two nations as he trespasses across my borders, hands moving into my territory, shifting under fabric that lifts away from my skin all too easily.

My defenses are weak.

Penetration, invasion, my body adjusts to accept the length of his fingers, so long, good bye. My spine arches, bowing forward, off the wall, I feel fluids running down my legs, down his hands as he masters me. My body purrs for him, skin flushed, lips partially open and pressed against his chest, his neck, his jaw, and our battle flags are lowered.

We sing, truce.

1 comment:

  1. You are a true inspiration for international peacekeepers everywhere.