sin and contemplation

I sat on the wide windowsill combing my hair, there I was a mere shadow in the low light slowly burning through the humid morning. You said years later that you remembered this image of me when you awoke, watching the beads of water fall onto the floor as I shook my head still wet after the shower after the run. I had been up for some time and returned in the early morning carrying two coffees, carrying a newspaper, carrying the key to the cheap rented room we found late the night before. You slept that morning–unusual for you–and I had let you sleep when you rolled over as I ran my hand across your belly, across your stiff cock. You smiled as you rolled over, and I left you to pleasant dreams, left me to wander the streets ostensibly seeking fitness, in truth seeking to grasp any sin still lingering there from the night before.

It was New Orleans.. must have been so long ago, so long before the recent sins of nature, sins of greed–so long ago that sin and New Orleans meant something else, some dark and forbidden thirst, like me traveling there with you–you so wrong and so delicious.

We sneaked away and followed the Mississippi, the fabled river leading us to temptation, all the way down: taking us to salvation or damnation, whichever seemed the appropriate definition when we got there.

Salvation: take me higher, I said, as you pushed your tongue into me. You were young then, inexperienced, and I was young, too, but not too inexperienced, so I showed you how I liked your tongue to tease me, to release me. Tease me release me. tease and release. Oh God, I said, and I came, saved by your tongue, your fast study tongue, your everlasting gobstopping tongue not stopping not releasing me not yet, intoxicated by this new power you had found over me.

Damnation: down low and dirty, those grinding tunes playing on a radio upstairs while you pumped your cock into my ass–you didn’t think I would do it, and I did it, and you pushed your way into that hot little hole, dirty little hole. You pushed a finger, two, in, lubed your cock before sliding it in, too. It was your first–not habit to me then–and you fucked me cursing under your breath at the sheer thought of it, at the sheer thought of fucking my ass. Damn, you said as looked down at your cock disappearing between my buttocks, damn, you came more quickly than you wanted, damn, none too soon for me shaking violently already in the pleasure of all that you could do to me then, there, too.

These were our novice attempts, our discoveries in rooms with peeling wallpaper, thin walls, window air conditioners blasting air that seemed to be made cold by freezer-burned ice cubes stored deep within, not great, not anything but loud. They may be gone now, surely are, surely should be, rebuilt as something better, refined, new. They may be gone, but I think of the white chenille bedspread, the scatter rug, the aqua tile in the bathroom, the sink with your toothbrush sitting on the side next to mine, a few coins on the table, the car keys waiting to unlock yet another adventure.

I think of you, there, standing in the window, the shadow of you waiting in the darkened room as sun falls, as light falls, as I fall into your arms.

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