prescription

The thing that struck me most, first, were your words, dropping off mid-sentence as I sat and reached beneath my dress to pull off my stockings.

You looked at me as we were chatting our hellos, and I pushed the dress high, so that you could glance from my face, lower, see the red and white panties, hot to the touch now as I waited for you here, waited to take the nylons off until you could watch me, I did. I did.

The thing I noticed next, second, was your face, red, as you shouted into the clear day, the lovely gushing as I straddled you, my red panties in your pocket now, with my keys. Your face, relieved, surprised, yes, already, yes, it was glorious, glorious as the day, and the light, and the grass, the soft wind and buzz of faraway traffic on the highway.

Third, the rush, the glow, spring, your head in my lap. My cunt still throbbing, even now as I write, remembering it, savoring it, all is well, remedy sublime.

farm stand

The signs were written in chalk: tomatoes, swiss chard, basil, fresh corn. You drove past, and then stopped, pulled over, and pulled my sweater roughly toward you, your beard rubbing my face raw as you kissed my ear, then bit it, not quite gently, just the way I like it.

“You are such a slut.”

My panties were wet already, even before you started this, but in reality it was the fresh produce that had caught your attention. You let go of my top, and shifted the car into reverse, screeching the tires as you u-turned quickly from the side of the road, and worked up the dust and gravel turning into the neighborhood stand.

The peaches, watermelons, corn were stacked in baskets. You loaded them into yours, and walked on to the grain-fed beef–packaged and waiting for you in the freezer.

“We’ll have a feast, hon’,” you said, pulling my hand close as you headed to the cash register.

I looked at you, that leather hat pulled low on your head, the shadow of your beard on your dark, tanned skin, summer, you pulled your wallet from the back pocket of your jeans and handed two twenties to the teenage girl at the counter. School starts next week, she told you, blushing at the white of your teeth, the dimple in your cheeks when you smiled at her, then once more at me.

You kicked a pebble from the doorway, then lost it with the others in the path, dust around your feet as we walked through the dry parking lot, your car dusty, too, seats warm now in the sun, your hand behind my headrest as you back up , leaning toward the center, toward me, as I grab your hand then, and kiss it, lick it, your smile, your laugh as you pull your arm back to shift into first, second, third, then grab my knee, squeeze quickly before grabbing the steering wheel once more, bounty in the back, the wine, bread, cheese, apples, your beach towel, speedo, taut ass beneath it. Soon your legs are stretched long on the sand, a weekday, hooky.

I should never be here with you, like this, like this afternoon when you have pulled me from those unimportant things, those never mind things, those Friday tired things that I would not have done anyhow, anyway. You pull me close once more, run your hands down my back, down my backside, and reach beneath my skirt to pull my panties off, toss my bikini bottom to me.

“Make yourself decent!” you growl, then laugh as you roll back and I pull the swimsuit up beneath my skirt, then remove the skirt, and look around as I figure out the top. The beach is deserted now, after Labor Day, the lifeguard stand empty, canoes turned upside-down farther down. No one is here, water warm, your soft lips next to mine, hard cock pressing against my hip.

You loosen your grip, and I break free. “Catch me,” I shout. You might.

I look back, and you have turned onto your belly, laid your head down, a moment, two, then you jump up, run to the water, and I run farther, then dive beneath the surface, your hand grabbing my ankle in no time. You are faster, pull my foot, skin on your skin, your kisses hard, then soft, then biting.

Your teeth sink into my neck, belly tight as my heart quickens, relax, my limbs limp, cunt wet as you slowly let me go, rush of pain, want, your cock even harder now when I dig my nails into your back. Your fingers pull the side of my swimsuit, then reach beneath. Yes, I am wet. Yes, I want you, want you here.

The car is hot, now, surely, vegetables baking in the back seat, sand in the seats now as you drive quickly back to a quiet place, a new place, a shady place, a roadside, a back seat, my mouth, my hair, my swimsuit tossed to the ground, yours, no room, no matter. You pierce my cunt, so long, so needed, corn ripe, peaches oozing as you step on the one that fell from the bag. Your sweat is pungent now, arouses me as I push you up, back, sit on you, bounce harder as you cry out, pull me closer, shout once more, twice, rush of warmth, dripping, I cry, I want, have, stop, cannot bear your fingers now squeezing my nipples, not more, not now, not yet.

So calm now, so sweet to lie back, tan lines, no lines, no cares, to bite into a peach and see you lean into your hands, rub your eyes. Once more, I say, I would, want, will wait.

Chard,beside the grill, steak, rioja, garden hose, grow up, on second thought, don’t.

ramble

I woke up late this morning, morning obscured by clouds and Saturday calm, delight of good rest, promise of the day. Cycling today, nowhere to go, but go, still, the gently sloping turns around trees, greenery full now to the edge of the road in the height of summer, heat deferred in the grey day, pedals guiding me around these paths familiar, but not, the tinge of unexplicable nostalgia subtle as I go on, honeysuckle here, where the lightning bugs came out two nights ago. I wanted to show you then, but thought of it anyhow, and now, yes, I would tell you about the honeysuckle, dripping fragrance obvious, but I would still say something, I always do. I would say something about the soaring sweetness of it, the tree swing flying high above the meadow, my heart beating fast when you have finally caught me again, when you have pinned me down, and smile because you don’t have to, unbuttoned, the rush, giddy desire suspended, extended, delicious. Silence is sublime in the space it leaves, space to think and dream, and wonder, and ramble in the hazy world of Saturday.

it’s raining again

This subject is trite. And yet I cannot stop myself from writing another piece about the soft raindrops falling outside, the pitter-patter on my roof, the way it makes me feel.

The unfortunate truth about this is that it is true, completely true. The rain whets my lust. I want you most on days like this, on days when I  sit beside you as we drive to some sort of bliss, with windshield wipers, and the grey comfort of clouds, no reason to venture beyond this shelter on a day like this, after all. I could have you all to myself, then, here.

I remember days like this, yearn for them once more, the thrill.

The thrill of the warmth, yes, but the wet, the unrelenting wet as I go out in spite of you without my umbrella. You feel compelled to follow me, to chase me, running, to find me, finally, to kiss me, here, in this cool rain, in my wet warmth, my excuse to undress you, to kiss your head, to warm you then, in showers, warm showers, to embrace you here, beneath the warm water, the slick wish, oh yes, I’ll say it now, I want you, I want you now.

But, of course, this being a trite exercise in writing about rain, in writing–really–I am aware of the distant, the intangible. And still…

And still, it is urgent, this desire. It is urgent, to me, to want you, to want you to want me, to want rain, to want wet, what, where, when?

tree

You asked me to meet you at the weeping beech tree.

The evening was growing dark, and I walked alone through the empty streets, into the park. Where had we seen it?

You startled me, jumping out like that onto the path, my heart racing first from the surprise, then from your hot breath on my neck, the evening chill, the moon behind us, so close, your hand grasping mine.

We ran. I pulled you to stop, then slipped off my shoes and took off barefoot with you through the high wet grass. And there it was, the beech tree, its branches low to hide us when we climbed beneath, shadows in moonlight, my breath short, reduced to gasps, delighted murmers in the night. You grabbed me tight, unaware perhaps yourself of anything but the most urgent, the kiss, my nipples stiff as you stroked the cashmere, my perfumed hair falling across your face. You, your fingers bewitched me here, the heat of your skin beneath the buttons, the glow, the scent of your lust, your cock eager as I reached your belt and pulled it tight to unbuckle you, unzip you, reveal you, your fingers beneath my sweater pulling at the hooks, the zipper to my skirt, the silk of my panties. This was it, this craving, your naked cock plunging deep into my plump cunt, the slick heat, my fingernails digging into your back as you cried out, the long awaited passion.

When I awoke,  I reached for you, sun streaming onto the wood floor, the dust in the light, the day, your skin glowing still, here, reigniting.

 

pancakes

You asked me to make pancakes.

I do not eat pancakes–shouldn’t, I say–but I made them anyway, for you.

The batter is lumpy in the yellow melamine mixing bowl, and I look at it, grudgingly pouring small circles onto the hot griddle. It is too hot, butter burning now beneath the cakes. You say you love that smell, and reach beneath me to open the oven, to pull the bacon from the broiler.

I watch your cakes bubble up on top, slowly, milk sweet, hot, scalding sweet, with the coffee you have made, the wood musty in this far-off cabin of yours, bugs humming, birds, peas-in-Canada, I hear, when you open the back door and whistle, your cat’s sleek fur now circling my ankles as I flip quickly, flip, quickly, and they are nearly ready, bacon, crisp, two plates, and your porch, two chairs, a small table between us, last night’s beer bottles and my flip-flops, our swimsuits flung over the railing. I can see my breath in the cool, the humid now near the lake, there beyond the fog. The coffee is so hot, your breath so hot, kisses hot in the early morning, the violets in the meadow, spring dew, you pinching my nipples as I carry two plates, the syrup hanging from my fingertip.

I should never eat these things, but you are right. They are perfect, burned butter, syrup, bacon, coffee. I am a child again. This is bliss, yes, morning, yes, you, yes, so comforting, so familiar, so inevitable, it seems, in the haze of morning, Ivory soap on your hands now as you turn my face toward yours. I might sleep again, soon, might fall back into bed with you, your kisses. Might wake, too, to wander through the dewy violets, to the water, warmer than the air, you were right. I might jump in, if you asked me, might swim in these dark waters, these known waters, these waters I have loved for so long, might dive, then, into the deep, might come up for air, might, might, wish I may, I might make pancakes again for you.

stood up

The porch light had burned out, I remembered as I walked quickly up the sidewalk. The footsteps behind me had seemed menacing in the late night, though I no longer heard them when I turned up the street toward home.

Now it was a Saturday, monthly concert evening. But the music that ordinarily transported me from my everyday existence had left me wanting tonight, not from the lack of skill on the part of the pianist, but more likely from my own state of mind as I walked into the concert, the untorn ticket for the seat beside mine still in my wallet. He had said 7:30–I was sure of it–but as 7:40, then 7:50 went past without a word, without a sign, I walked into the crowded hall and found my seat.

The night would not be spoiled, beloved music still promising its sweetness on a soft, warm evening. But the Chopin I so dearly love only irritated me in its perfection, as if it were mocking me along with the couples casually touching hands as they leaned into one another to whisper, a giggle, an arm swept around a shoulder. Intermission came, and I glanced at my messages in the lobby, then felt a lump in my throat, a warm embarrassment sweeping over me at it as I saw that he had not answered my text, not even now. I walked outside, cherry trees blooming all around in the glow of spring. I looked up at the stars, wishes so faraway, the cherry blooms, oh, bitter sweetness. I dried my eyes, and felt a sudden urge to be anywhere but there.

The streets were filled on this beautiful night, muffled voices, an occasional laugh drifting out from the restaurants, the clink of glasses. Wine cooked off in a sauce, that aroma stopped me, beckoned me, aroused my hunger. I glanced back at the glowing lights, turned back, and walked into the cafe.

It was you, I should have known, you, bent over your magic pan, the whisk quick in the thickening sauce, the heat, your face flush from the hot stove. I knew, the thyme, the memory of your hands on mine. You stood behind me once as I chopped for you, carrots, onions, celery, your wine-lush lips on the back of my neck. You threw the vegetables into the sizzling butter, tossed them, then turned me around and kissed me, pushing my blouse away from my shoulder. We sipped that wine, that crisp white wine poured onto the mirepoix, the thyme on top, we cheered and sipped, gulped, the droplets from your glass then falling onto my chest, my buttons undone as the wine dripped down, your mouth tracing the trail of the wine, you brusquely pulling my bra from my breast, and kissing me there, there in the kitchen, my nipples firm, and ripe, and wanting.

The beef would sit in that stock with the mirepoix for a long time, I knew. I used to know the nature of braises, their slow simmer, your teasing kisses in the meanwhile, the long road, the unhurry, the same ending, always, and none the less satisfying for the repetition. I had forgotten.

I had forgotten, the pleasure, the elixir, brown stock, your beard scraping the soft flesh of my inner thighs. It was you, yes, you in that kitchen. I ordered the wine, and today’s special, and I sent my compliments to the chef.

It was spring, as I walked back past the concert hall, now dark, a cool wind picking up, raindrops starting to fall, the glowing lights gone, stars gone, cherry blossoms blowing from the trees. The streets had emptied, nearly, only a few pedestrians out now, hurrying, like me. I rummaged through my purse, and pulled out my keys as I made my way back to my dark house.

You startled me, my heart pounding as you appeared suddenly behind me, grasped my long hair and pulled my neck to your impatient mouth. I began to scream, and you hushed me, the heady scent of stock still in your hair, subduing me. My keys fell to the ground, it was you, your beard now scraping my neck, your hands round my wrists as you pushed me roughly to the door, my breath short, your kisses cool, soothing my raw skin.

It was you, your hair, sweat, pillow still warm, fingers, lips gently tracing the lash marks on my backside in the early morning light, the cream, coffee, wet grass and blooms, wet street, the gently turned eggs, the luxury of rain, cool, the lost, the recovered, the here, the now.

labyrinth

My skirt flutters in the breeze as I walk past the empty daytime houses, shoes dusty from the shortcut through backyards, through last fall’s leaves scattered once more in the days that have held tight to early spring. It all seems endless now, the wind and the cool, summer teasing so early this year, then blown away. I have lost my way, it all seems so familiar, yes, this warmth, I want, I am home again, yes, impatient, yes.

The quiet here torments me, the after laughter, scene of passion, skin still longing somehow, burning, skin that hours earlier seemed so satisfied.

I want you.

I want the sting, steam rising from the bath, my skirt slid over my hips and onto the cold tile, my sweater tossed upon the towels, your slap once more revived in the hot water,  moment recalled, the image in the mirror fogged, forgotten, the wish for the unexpected, the wandering, the bittersweet intensity of my lips wet and anticipating, the desire to retrace measures of pain and pleasure, the sublime, the careful dance.

Gnossienne number 1: the path of your fingertips.

fear

If this were to disappear, all of this sensual world, what would we become?

If the excitement of your caresses were to become impossible, would you love me less? Would you be here still to kiss me, even in the absence of skin, the responses now different, wiser if changed by time and weather, seasons passing, the imperfections even of this oasis, where nothing bad was ever supposed to happen?

Or would it disappear, our world only fantasy? Would you want to stay where life is still real, and not perfect, no, but not without its beauty?

another

It is another of these sorts of nostalgic days, a calm day, wishful, wistful, but not in an unpleasant sort of way. The rain is light, the fog heavier, and the lights in the house are bright now after the cool streets so early in the morning, the quiet whoosh, the cleansing of days and thoughts, comfort, absence of sun, light within.