walking home

I liked to walk home from school. Sometimes there was an important reason to hurry back, but most days not. Some days were cold, some rainy, most not. And the days that held no other excitement invited the opportunity for new paths, new explorations. A creek, usually dry, wound back through the way home, woods and alley shortcuts, the connected yards where no one minded kids sneaking through the lives of their various owners with their habits, their particular kindnesses, or a harsh admonishment in the wrong place, the older siblings out of school earlier–or skipping, smoking pot and making out on the hill out of sight of adults who pretended to have no time for exploration. Days and days back in the woods behind my house, the stash of Penthouse magazines we found there, the secrets, the snakes and birds. Time.

So rare now it seems is this exploration this walk, perhaps in new places now, a harbor walk, a garden, the roof of a building that owns the city night–or seems to–the wonder in tracing the lines of your body, your smooth skin, your hair, the curve of your ass when you roll over, the way you tense, then relax completely as I push you apart and wander around you, over you, in you. I love this, the changes in your voice excited, breath shorter, then a long sigh, an urgent passion, deepening in the desire for it all, this discovery always new and yet familiar, the paths and all that grows there, comes there, stays there sometimes forever, sometimes for a short time, and then still seems new. A tan evident now where the sun visits, white and cool where I visit the contrast exciting me all the more as you peel back the fabric, finding my lines and curves, my secret desire warm and wet and wanting the intrusion, your seemingly perpetual tumescence in the haze of new summer, new years, new nights.

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