new text message

Tim felt the familiar vibration and reached inside his pocket to stop the buzzing.

The conference room had no windows, and not quite enough room to fit the group–all men–who claimed their space confidently, scrutinizing the scribblings on a flip chart. It was another “status update”… one for a department working on projects related to Tim’s department, but not to anything he was doing. Mandatory face time on a Friday afternoon. No chance of ducking out at noon.

Four hours until vacation.

Liz was home packing. She had scheduled her time off beginning two days before Tim’s, partly to avoid arousing suspicion, partly out of what seemed an overwhelming desire to plot her fantasies with as much preparation as possible.

The nights leading up to this departure date, Liz described in lurid detail what she imagined for vacation: the sensation of hot sand against her chest, her knees digging in as Tim would kneel behind her, his hand on her back, then both hands pulling her hips back toward his as their movements would dig deeper to the cold, wet sand beneath. He dreamed of this, the gentle lull of the waves, the sun beating down as he would fuck her there, on some beach still warm but abandoned after Labor Day.

Liz was silent on the subject, however, when Tim asked her where they were going. They would be camping some of the time, and they were driving his pick-up. That much he knew, and in any event, he barely cared, cared only about the luxury of uninterrupted time with his new girlfriend. Tim leaned back and breathed. At least the hard part of the day was over.

In spite of Liz’s reticence about the trip itself, she had been texting Tim throughout the morning.

“Tim, do you have a flashlight you can pack? THX xo Liz”

“Tim, don’t forget: TWO swimsuits! xxLiz”

“We can have dinner before we leave town.”

The stream of information arrived steadily as Tim finished the proposal, the culmination of weeks of work, due today at noon.

Liz sent details, difficult to avoid, though totally unnecessary. Tim watched the texts carefully at first, anticipating the promise of Liz’s lusty imagination on his cell phone screen. No. Just details. About packing. He answered the first three texts immediately:
“Sure, will do x Tim”

“Already packed. See you soon, Tim”

“Sounds great. See you after work!”

When the fourth alert came minutes later, Tim sighed, looked down: “NEW TEXT MESSAGE”. He turned the phone to vibrate and set it on the table behind him.

Uninterrupted, Tim put the finishing touches on his work, and delivered the proposal to his supervisor. He hurried down the hall to grab the slice of greasy cheese pizza offered at Friday afternoon meetings, stale apologies for a stolen lunch hour. Tim yawned and found a seat near the door.

The others started to file in, men Tim knew from the gym, from lunch, from their attendance at his own department’s status reports…

“Hey Tim, we hear you’re off on vacation! Where are you going?”

“Tim, great to see you here. Are you going to pitch for us when you come back?”

He chatted, anxious to distract himself enough to sit for the rest of the day. A nice enough group of guys, Tim thought as they talked, though he knew so few people even now since he moved east. Two years, and the city was fun, but still not quite home. Maybe this is what happens, Tim pondered, when you stay too long in the place where you grew up. He spent his entire youth trying to plan his escape from Iowa, only to leave and discover that he was a Midwesterner still.

Joe, Tim’s supervisor, nodded as he walked past–twenty minutes late–and took a seat near the front of the room. The meeting finally began.

Tim thought about Liz.

He had met her the day he began working in this office almost two years ago. She worked in human resources, and he remembered her curly red hair pulled back from her face, her gauzy polka dot blouse gaping open enough to reveal an edge of lace curving against her white skin. She handed him a stack of papers–insurance plans, short-term disability, words words–and he was there, in the panting flurry of a new job, a new life, the hint of her breasts distracting him from the details she explained clearly, he did not doubt, though all he remembered about them was the sound of her voice. He returned the forms to her the next day, lingering long enough to ask her to lunch.

She said no.

Tim saw her once more about six months later, in the hall outside his office. She caught his glance, then turned quickly to hide the tears running down her face as she left the corner office. He watched, saw Joe walk out and slam the door shut a few minutes later.

There was chatter about the outburst, of course, but no one had known about Joe and Liz, or what had happened between them. Days later, Joe seemed unchanged, laughing and throwing darts as he sipped his beer, flirting with the waitress exactly as he did every Thursday after work. And Tim never saw Liz again until this past spring–open enrollment. Dental insurance. She took in the required paperwork and smiled at Tim. Her nipples hardened beneath pale pink angora, and he asked her out to dinner. She said yes.

That night, Tim ran his finger gently along Liz’s ivory arm, up to the short sleeve of her sweater. He put his hand on her shoulder, and pushed the red curls from her neck, then kissed her gently, his cock hardening as she kissed him back, blushing, her nipples beneath the softness hard once more.

The rules were clear: no contact at work. No talking, only texts. And avoid the bar down the street.

The cell phone vibrated once more. Joe glared back at Tim. It was one o’clock.

Tim reached into his pocket:


He looked quickly, opened the first:

“I put gas in the truck!”

Oh.. good. More of these. Tim knew that Liz was excited, but the time she sent it… eleven o’clock! She knew! She knew he would be working, trying to finish.. But still. A twinge of guilt ran through him for not answering. He looked at the next:

“DAISIES!?? Oh Tim, how romantic! I love them XXXX Liz!!”

Flowers? Tim was perplexed, thinking first of what occasion he might have missed. The trip? Yes, but they would go bad then, and she would have them for nothing. He should have answered her before the meeting. Should have seen this.

Flowers? Tim pushed the phone back into his pocket.  If not from him, then, from whom?

Tim was romantic. Only he liked to show it in practical ways.. making Liz her lunch when she stayed overnight with him, changing the wiper blades on her car. She appreciated this, he knew, and he felt he could always do those things, always make her life a little better in small ways because he adored her already. He felt his dull days brighten, just knowing she was upstairs, just knowing that he would leave and sometimes see her pull out of the parking lot near him, that they would meet somewhere minutes later. She texted him most days, told her about her indiscretions, her lack of panties, and he answered her, promising fingers and tongues plunging into her wet crevices. She told him about the way other men looked at her as she leaned over, pointing out the way to fill out the W-2 forms. She told him about her garters, her heels, her own fingers creeping beneath her panties, when she wore them, as she lingered in the women’s room after lunch. She told him she dreamed of him locking the door to her office and pounding his steel cock into her hole as he pushed her face down into her desk, the papers floating to the ground, and her utter incapacity to retrieve them as he held her hands locked behind her back, as he used her slick cunt in his moments of vicious lust.

Flowers. Tim grabbed the phone and opened it again.

“Tim, my panties are drenching. I wish your fingers were where mine are now.” One o’clock. She was drenching at one o’clock

Tim’s cock hardened as he thought of Liz’s panties, wisps of lace, precious in price, evidently for the artistry, the way they drew lines on her skin, embellishing the curves beneath, covering her if only so that he could uncover her.

Joe stood, “I am afraid I have to be at another meeting in a few minutes.” He turned quickly and walked back, planted his hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“Good work helping with that proposal, Tim. See you after next week.”

Tim reddened, hoping that Joe did not notice his excitement, his lack of response to the gesture. He glanced again at the clock. Another two hours until he could get to Liz, until he could run his hand along the side of her thigh, feel her press against him, his hands lifting the wet lace and teasing her, but only for a short time before slipping the panties off and gliding into her. His cock pressed against his pants as the phone vibrated again. He leaned forward, flipped it open

“Come over now! I want you so much.. xoxo Liz”  Two o’clock. She had waited a whole hour to send again. It really was not so much, even if he was busy. He wanted to text back, but saw his colleagues next to him. Impossible to do it discreetly.

Tim needed her now, too. So long to wait, it seemed now… and the messages sat there. Liz would never wait so long for her release. She never could resist the urge to let her own fingers circle her clit. She would pull the purple dildo from her nightstand after a while, push it between her plump labia, her whole body tensing, pausing as she instinctively aimed for her favorite spots, over and over again, just short of climax, then pushing past it. He imagined her head pressed hard against the pillow as she came, her cries loudly calling out his name.


“Where ARE you!? LIZ!”

Oh.. if only. Two-thirty. She made it longer than he had imagined…

Three o’clock. Another buzz.

“Oh Joe, can’t wait!”

Joe! She called him Joe. Another hour, and she had called him Joe.

Tim’s chest pounded. His gut ached. He knew it was a mistake, knew she meant Tim. But in the power of her lust, she was texting his name. Joe.

But he wondered. Joe had left a full hour ago. It was three o’clock. The meeting ended early, and Tim exited quickly, rushed into a storage closet and scrolled down to find her name, pressed send, then waited for her to pick up. Ring. Ring.


“Yes, Liz! It’s me. I.. I can leave now. I’ll be there in twenty min…”


“Yes! I ‘m sorry I didn’t answer the texts. I was finishing the proposal, then had to go to the meeting.”

“Tim, it’s fine. It’s just…”

“Okay Liz. Be there in just a few minutes. I just have to check my email and close up. Then we can leave. I love you.”

“Oh Tim.. Okay. Goodbye.”

Tim opened his mailbox.

From: The Big Cheese (ooh. Boss with a sense of humor) To: Joe Cc: LIST

Joe, great proposal. Congratulations on all the hard work. You definitely earned a great vacation.

From: Joe  To: Tim

Great work, Tim. Thanks for the team effort. I hope you have a great break. Hey, I never mentioned this, but the wife and I separated for awhile. I think I convinced her to try it again, so we’re going away for the week. Amazing what a bunch of cheap flowers on your anniversary can do.

From: Liz  To: Tim

Tim. Why didn’t you answer? I found the flowers, thought they were from you. But then…

I am so sorry. He loves me, Tim. It was good, Tim. I hope you understand. I love you.

Tim blinked at the screen. No one knew they were married? Buy why? Why was it a secret? And why did she accept Tim’s invitation for dinner, much less want him to be her boyfriend, to go away with him? Did Joe know? Why? For everything, why?

Tim grabbed his jacket and walked out of his office. He headed down the stairs, walked down the street toward Liz’s apartment. In a few minutes he would see his red pickup parked on the street outside. He would take the keys from her silently as she cried and explained, and he would start the old thing, then wrap his right hand around the bench seat, looking back through the center for other cars. He would stop, then shift, three on the tree, and pull forward, driving all night if he had to, driving on, to the next best thing.

be prepared

The hurricane may bear down hard, the weathermen say. They say that, as they warn us about every storm, because this one will be the one we remember forever.

I have a flashlight now, found it finally, here when the electric is gone. Everything is in order now. Books and blankets and foodstuffs and plywood, shutters shut, as intended for these sorts of days. I’ll boil water before the lights begin to blink, and drink hot tea in my haven as I hear the water come rushing down, the wind beating against the clapboards. I will stay here where I am safe, where I think I am safe.

Be prepared. Be here.

The only safe place is here, you here with me, in my bed. Be prepared, and lie beside me while the weather howls outside.

You are here with your smile and its potential to undo me once more, our clothes fallen to the ground in movements now displaced from the order of our memories. We lie in the aftermath, sheets pulled from corners, blankets on the floor, crumpled pillows retrieved now so we can rest, the bed itself now far from the wall, unhitched from the dock, now drifting quickly out to the turbulence that we know lies ahead.

Here, in your arms, feels safe.

The storms are not even close now, the clarity of the day hides nothing, it seems. I smile. But when I turn away, when I close my eyes even for a moment, I see you, feel the clenching knot in my belly, my tender breasts full, aching. Your far-off touch runs along the borders of my skin, skin shuddering, gripped with the intensity of wanting you.

Clarity, your smooth skin, your open smile betray the forecast. Wait. I wait, anticipate the violence we resist, we avoid. We run, we protect, we prepare, we hide, and we remain never prepared, nevertheless craving meaning, clarity of purpose, seeking, passion, that climax that will destroy us in the making.

It renews us in the grander scheme of things, or so we tell ourselves as we abandon our shelter. It renews us. So the philosophers will say years from now.

Your slick skin glides against mine, your heat, your lips bruise my lips as you kiss me not here, not now, but to mark this, mark me, mark us in this time, this space. We destroy, yes, as your cock slaps against my drenching lips, thrusts open my swollen cunt, takes all of it, destroys all of today, all of me, all of you, all of what I thought was true before now. It is a hurricane, they say, heading here toward us now with gale force winds, and I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but you, and the fury within you, within me, the force of this moment, this unforgettable storm, today’s treasures scattered debris. And then, not here, not now, the peace beyond, the moment when we awake, when we turn over gently and smile, a smile retrieved, perhaps, never the same smile, tomorrow’s smile.

The wise sea will calm soon, then surge again, then quiet. It always does, sure as summer soon will relinquish the season, as fall rages toward winter, sure as the sunset, the sunrise, sure as desire, my come-filled cunt, your glistening cock, knowing, satiated, and still, once more, wanting.

the best is yet…

“From the tree of life I just picked a plum.

You came along, and things just started to hum.

Well, it’s a real good bet, the best is yet to come…”

(“The Best Is Yet To Come”, by Cy Coleman, lyrics by Carolyn Leigh)

Today is one of those rare days that always reminds me of late summer, the type that seems so appealing when I am trudging through the narrow sidewalks of late winter. In my memory, all August days are crisp, long-shadowed, and glorious, full of promise, lust defined.

The fruit hangs low now on the trees, and I will pluck it right off rather than wait for it to descend on its own. I will shake the tree, and let your pungent fruit enchant me, envelop me, remain on me.

Is my fantasy the same of those Tuscan women in the thirteenth century? Ah.. perhaps:

“The mural, found concealed on a wall inside one of Massa Marittima’s public fountains, consists of a tree with human penises and testicles hanging from its branches, beneath which stand eight or possibly nine female figures in medieval dress. One of the women appears to be using a pole to pull one of the penises to within reach. ” (from The Telegraph, 21 August 2011, read here)

Of course, the article that features this fresco does not focus on its discovery, or on its delicious lustiness. It is a story of censorship, whether by weather or by intention. In the name of restoration, the genitals have been scrubbed, covered, obliterated.. perhaps. Or perhaps they are all the more obvious for their disappearance.

After all, would The Telegraph be publishing a story about this wonderful piece if censorship were not the headline?

And if we could see these lovely penises, ripe for the picking, if the article were indeed directly about this, and not about its denial, would we have even noticed it? Or would we, some centuries later, be shocked by the headline describing it? Can we only talk about what we want by remarking what others will not let us have?

It is a curious thing, this desire to hide from desire, the seeming necessity to separate sex from life–to deny it as well as to put it on a pedestal–when in fact, sex is life, woven into it in so many different ways. It breathes life, it sustains us–if not the physical act, then the wish for it, the imagining of it, the rapture of it, the memory of it, the pure luscious taste of it.

crème brûlée

I bought a blow torch.

It was small, but powerful. I bought it, thinking how marvelous it would be to burn. I wanted to take a hot flame and melt whatever lay before me, to change it into something spectacular.

I burned with abandon. But then, I put it back into the box and left it there for a very long time. Like the voodoo doll in my nightstand, its power frightened me.

I see you. You look up, and look at me. We look, and then hold the gaze. One, two.. twenty seconds perhaps before your smile finally sears my memory of you. Days later, and it is this that we remember: the shell of our smiles and the soft heat beneath them, the promises and the charm. The temptation of all that lies within.

This is simple, really, the gaze, the caramel sugar, the hand grasped beneath the table, and held. Time, and the sweetness of difference, the contrast between today and tomorrow, between you and me, between what we know and what we wish we knew.

It is this, desire: simple, and terrifying.

Eventually, though, we all crack open. The sweet appearance that terrifies us is rarely all that matters.

We reveal all the mistakes we ever made, the mismeasured moments, the overdone, the underdone. We regret, and we go on, find the sweet among the cream, the flavors added in some whim–unnecessary, but ultimately right.

And in the end, it is never perfect, but we look for more. We want more. In the end, there is always perfection in the whole.


Helen is wearing an apron, an anachronism, but one that you find fetching. She is wearing the pearls, the long ones you admired next to her untanned skin when you unfastened the last button, brushed the smooth grey blouse off her perfumed shoulders, and let the silk tumble to the ground.

The kitchen now is steaming, fragrant with the dense stock that has reduced in the short ribs she left braising in the copper pan while she dressed. Helen started chopping as soon as she came home, sipping the wine as she stood at the counter watching the trees beyond the window but diverting her attention then back to the minute. She minced the small carrots and onions and celery, melted butter to sauté, went to the yard to fetch a sprig of thyme and added the rest of the wine, and the time she waits wandering the quiet house, the rooms all still dark now in the early evening except the kitchen, and the dining room, where she has laid out the candles and the Limoges, the Waterford, your grandmother’s silver and linens because Helen always goes too far. She is incapable of being casual.

It is the Bach again, this time with four harpsichords, and you hear her scurry down the stairs to wait by the door as the piece begins: ta… ta TA ta ta ta TA ta ta ta, TA ta ta ta…   It is perfect, and between the curtains on the door, you see her pause in that perfection, as she looks down and begins to untie the apron, but then looks up as you open the door. Her faced is flushed, her hopeful smile like a light, the same grey silk blouse she wore when you met her in the hotel that memorable day, now she is in heels, and you hand her the flowers–thankful that you thought it best that she forgive you tonight, thankful that you wore the cologne. You knew she had planned this, each fuck an event. No, this is not casual.

Each bite, each bite is a testament of the thinking behind it, the dreams she seems to wrap around herself like a cloak. You dream, perhaps, too, in each mile you drive back each night to her. You dream in each shower that you step out of before you climb into her bed, in each moment in time that belongs to this lust–her lust–to the memory of yours, too. So, you kiss her, your erection granted to you in moments of desperation, in the pinup fantasy she has so artfully crafted for you as she leans up against the doorway, her silhouette reminding you of everything you told her you ever wanted. She spreads her legs, and a scent of powdery flowers overcomes you, Je Reviens, something ancient, something disturbingly comforting in it, too. You kiss her neck, suffocating as her moans call out to you like a siren about to take you deeper than you want to go anymore. You drown in it, need the release, but dread this incessant expectation of love, or even of your presence. You fall asleep from the effort, and the world slips away to a place where you can think of how it feels to escape, to fly down the open road through the prairies far away.

But morning comes, and the heaviness of life all comes back. A sip of coffee in matching mugs, and the day is all one inch more familiar, one more bill to pay, one more mouth to feed, one more thing to do, one more fucking obligation, one inch farther from the joy you intended years ago. Everything is wrong. She is wrong, stupid, and you can never forget that, never let go of the contempt you guard just for her, if only because she still believes you.

Helen knows. Yes, you know deep down that she knows in every loaf kneaded and left to rise, in every sock whose mate is discovered, in every moment she remembers to stop and buy the cream for your coffee on the way home from work. She knows you left her long ago, but you know, too, that it is in these efforts that she tries, tries once more to reach you, leaving you only more guilty for the days you intentionally disappoint her. You take the long way home. You awaken before dawn and slip out undetected as you ease your motorbike down the driveway before she hears the growl of the muffler, growing fainter as you ride away. On days that you stay, you remember how pretty she used to be, try to help her find that again–if but for her lack of will, she would still be exactly the same.

You watch her face age in seconds.

You hope that she will stop hoping someday, that she will just give up so you don’t have to.

But you know she will never disappoint you. You know, because she promised to love and honor, to cherish, yes, and by tradition though she never outright said it, to obey.  She is alone. She needs you after all these years. She will never leave.

She would never dare.


“A little wider,” he said, squinting a bit as he squatted down to examine me there, demurely perched upon the chaise.

I leaned back, defiant now, and opened my legs enough that they pushed my knee-length skirt high up my thighs.

“Like this?” I asked, mocking him. I knew full well that he could see only the top of my thighs, not more.


I let my head fall back, and spread my legs just a little wider now as he aimed his view.

I heard the shutter click, and felt a warmer sensation take over my entire lower body. I was suddenly drunk with it. I wanted more.

My legs spread even wider, my unshaved pussy now was his, was there for all the world to see, my glistening lips, my hot desire. I feared this, feared what he was doing to me, The fabric beneath me was damp.

“Come for me,” he said.

I started to stand, then realized what he meant, and eased myself back onto the sofa, unbuttoned my blouse slowly and let it fall open. My clit was alive, dancing, and I could nearly come. I could, nearly, just from the excitement of this timeless exhibition.

He was famous, he said, would publish these pictures somewhere. I really do not know where. Nowhere, maybe. Maybe he is just another pervert. But then, it seems, so am I.

I do not come for just any man. I look at him, as he smokes those detestable cigarettes that normally do nothing but turn me off. But they turn me on now, as I reach round back to unfasten my bra, then lean back on this chaise on a stage of sorts, not in a living room, but pulled out with a screen behind it to make it seem staged. I know this is on purpose, for the light perhaps, but this sex out of context brings the smoke rings into perfect perspective as I raise my head and lick my fingers. Snap. He takes another picture, and I lean my head to let my hair fall down around my face before looking up at the camera and licking my fingers again. Snap. He likes that one. He is snapping, and I begin to luxuriate in the haze of the fantasy we are creating. I toss my head back again, ecstatic the longer he takes, but then roll onto my knees and let my bra fall as I lean on my hands, searching once more for the camera, mesmerized once more by it, breathing in his smoke and his cologne, catlike as I arch my back deeply and purr.

“Tell me what you want,” I tease, as I spread my legs, my back arched even more, my face and not my exposed back to the camera.

He circles around me, predictably. I do not let him capture me yet. I roll onto my back, take my long pearls into my teeth as I have always wanted to do, and hold out my hand in vain, as if I did not really want for him to seize my erect nipples on film.

He uses film. He develops it in the chemicals that are as ancient as the notion that his smoking actually benefits his health. He develops the film in his bathroom, issuing me stern warnings not to open the door at certain times, at certain times when the room must remain completely dark, even outside the bathroom, because any light would destroy the negatives.

In the dark, we are alone, primitive. In the dark, all we can do is fuck. We can fuck in the dark, chanting and moaning and grabbing at all other sensation but sight for some remnant of the world, some indication that we are real and not simply figments of our own imagination. He plays loud thumping music as we fuck, loud as I take another sip of wine and roll him onto his back so that I can take over and use him, too. His cock is fine, hard, new, never ending it seems as I take him in far enough that it aches, then the ache opens me, the only thing that will fill me, the only thing I have ever needed.

He lets his head fall back, as he pants.

“So you like photographing my naked pussy, don’t you?” I tease him, agonize as I slide back and let just his head slip in and out of my flooding cunt.

“Tell me,” I say, as he has not yet answered me with anything more worthy than a grunt.

“Say it,” I tease him still as he tries to push his cock higher, his hips now lifted into the air beneath me, my hips still high enough that he never can.

“Say what?” he pleads. I feel his hands pushing my hips, fighting to make me give in to his gorgeous huge cock.

“Tell me what you want from me,” I said, my hips still stronger than his hands, which have not yet succumbed quite to out and out aggression.

“I want you to fuck me,” he said.

“Tell me exactly what you want, how you want it, and when, ” I say, now powerful, now lusting powerfully for him wanting me.

My resolve conquers my immediate desire, and I jump away from him and light a candle, now stand above him, eyeing his hand wrapped around his enormous dick, his eyes dilated in the new light and glaring wildly at me.

I pick up the camera.


His cock will be lovely, there. I do not know how to develop this film.

“Show me what you want,” I say.

He looks at me, the camera, looks afraid, looks needy as he lets his hand slide down the length of his cock, then back up, his eyes closing.

“Oh my god…” he moans and lingers as his hand reaches the head. Snap.

His cock is lovely, yes, but it is the photo of his face that whets my lust now. His cherubic eyes shut tightly, eyelashes peaking out of the creases beneath his eyes, his dimpled grimace, the lines of his forehead drawn, not young but knowing, his mouth unposed, open. I imagine his need. I hear his ever louder breathing, his cry, his silence now just as he could come.

I remember that day, the dim light. I remember his other hand dangling, holding, then dropping his drink, the ice cubes sliding across the floor, the bourbon and the smoke drifting up from the ashtray through the room, my mouth nudging away his hand. Once, twice, I lick him, swallow him, and he stops me there where I am kneeling against the chaise longue to reach him, my drunken desire now for him, to reach me, spread me. He regains control, an animal, hungry.

“Wider,” he growls, as he spins round back of me, pushes my back against the furniture and lifts my skirt.

I let him. I want him. I arch my back, and his cock glides into me. Slick, tight. I imagine a photo of it, an x-ray. I imagine his cock through me, deeper, deeper still. I imagine his piston-tight fucking, his ass clenched as he digs deeper, my lungs expanded, my head buried into the plush fabric, my resistance futile. I imagine his come shooting the negative black–just the opposite of the liquid that leaks from me later–coating my bones, coating my blood, a door opened, and my heart is exposed.


When I was walking downtown, I thought perhaps I might find you here somewhere, waiting.

I thought I might look over when I heard a whistle, or a call, and see you there, leaning against a column, you my filthy fantasy, you here.

I think of this, of you in a doorway, of me here with you, of public displays of affection, public displays of lust, played out here on the wet streets, the streets after rainfall, puddles, the streets in the rain, people running, thinking us fools to stay in it but not surprised, not glancing close enough to notice your hand pushing my skirt up the side of my leg, your hand wandering, wandering to seek shelter, or delight, the wet heat you have created.

I think of you, your cock pressed hard up against my leg, my hand now wandering to explore, to wonder in the ever increasing size, I wonder if I unzip your trousers if your cock will grow like a beanstalk, your desire growing tall enough for me to climb up into the sky with the skyscrapers that pretend to protect us even as it rains on a summer night in the city.

I wonder if we climb high above the clouds, the rain, if the world is so big, so bountiful there, if there really are giants, if I slide back down, ecstatic in my fear, my thrill in the places you take me now, here, on a city street, right here, in a doorway where any giant might see, where any giant might stop us if he glanced, if he saw my legs wrapped tight around your hips, if he saw you push me up against a wall, if he saw you push your hips into me, push my head hard into your shoulder just when I want to cry out, just when your words push me beyond the limits of the buildings and the city streets and the sky itself. How can this be discreet? But you promise me it is, it is, as your raincoat shields our indecencies, as you whisper naughty things, sweet things, nothings that I cannot remember except for their tone, their taste, the raindrops that hit my forehead and roll down my face, tickling me as you rock me gently now, easing me back into the doorway, the sidewalk, my legs now nearly incapable of walking without you holding me up, and you do, you do wrap a hand around my waist and draw up your raincoat, hold out an umbrella to protect me, and walk with me through the city streets, onward, onward, into the fog, into the night.