once in a while

Waiting, wistful–no, wishful, willful, unwilling, willing perhaps in the window seat, I peek out at the shadows on the street, half expecting your innocent prance past the parked cars across, up the path.

I found your note tucked into the letter box, your invitation, I was here, meet me once more, tomorrow, noon. I am here.

I am here, black sheer stockings rolled up my shaved legs early in the day, garters catching the lace beneath the short skirt, someone saw, blushed, said nothing, carried on, then whispered, he’ll think of me.

Think of me, I know you would be with me, if… If days were longer, if we had the time, space, cherished moments, life itself, some other life. Days grow shorter in autumn, clearer, these blue moons so unusual, still another three years’ wait, I hear, so rare, so lovely, you could.

We could, you know. We could race up the stairs once again, and you could catch me, throw me to the bed and kiss me, yes. You could lay your head in my lap and close your eyes, drift off, then stretch high to lie beside me, hold me close, too close, so close. You could let me love you while you fuck me I fuck you you love me.

Or maybe you do, or did, or wanted to, or could have, or could never say, or never did, or did, or will, or perhaps it was simply fear, or desire, deferred.

To greet you here, love, noon, today, tomorrow, skin so sweet, so six a.m., so Saturday, so sleep, now, love, sleep.

sunday, late

Come to bed, sweet, come now.

I should have fallen asleep now hours ago, or before now, anyway. The night has grown late, and I wait for you, want you, cannot sleep.

I have found the turquoise nightgown, the old one, vintage, some fantasy from long ago. It charms you, I know, with its ruffles, the polyester lining beneath chiffon, my hair up, now down as you unfasten it, let my dark strands fall onto my shoulders, and you, the kiss of red wine.. I drink from your glass, and yes, it is wonderful. For this I stay up late, just to watch you walk into the room, then turn, aroused by my nightly reading, your hand on the hem of the skirt.

You are quick, my love, your clothing tossed to the ground so quickly, so hurriedly, as I barely have the chance to enjoy the slow exposure of your fine flesh, your trousers bulging in front, your spray-starched shirt laid carefully upon my stack of skirts and sweaters that I might choose to wear this week. Why not put them in the closet, you say, until you open the closet, and see the dilemma, no room, too much, you are not surprised, as you lower your head beneath my legs, nearly immediately, yes, I wore panties, was wearing panties, and you have rolled them down my legs so deftly, now off, and your head is where I dreamed it might be, soon, now, your tongue circling my clit as you kneel in your navy briefs and lick me.

I should sleep, but now am wet, my sweat unavoidable in this room, this gown that, while elegant, does not breathe, meant obviously to please only momentarily before eventual removal, and you have pulled it now over my shoulders, my neck, your cock pressing against the briefs, which I nearly as quickly roll down your ass, and off. I could stop, revel in the luxury of skin, your honey hair at the base of your ready cock, my skin now supple, first, inviting, hot, ripe, as I see your prick bounce as I lick you there, me now kneeling as you stand, run your hands through my hair, then grasp my head, thrust into my mouth first hard, then though you thought you might hurt me, toss yourself onto the bed, pulling me atop.

I should sleep, the hours all the shorter as I look at the alarm, set, must awaken by six o’clock, and it is midnight now, past, now Monday, early, and I want to sleep, want more to fuck you, want more for you to flip me over and send me into sweet oblivion, sweet dreams, your come dripping from my throbbing cunt, my ass, and the dreams between. No, I cannot sleep, not with you in my bed, not yet.


Hello, darlin’.

Yes, been listening to that old George Jones, here in the late afternoon, early evening now, later, as I look up and am glad to find you here, your fingers wandering up between my open legs as I lean back and explore the day, the tired day, the end of day that I wanted a nap, or, more than that, you, your cock, much more than I let myself ponder even in late summer, even when I am alone in that dreary office and looking at my horoscope, or twitter links, or whatever the Economist thinks that Angela is going to do about the Euro, or some other waste of time because I cannot take another serious thought, want laughter, oh yes, do that, just like that, want you.

Yes, take a sip, my dear, take a sip, it is the 2010 Gigondas, St. Cosmé, 95 by the Wine Spectator, and I am about to drink this glass myself, but drink, drink, lean into me, and love this, love this day and our mock sophistication. I still love this life, want you. Your cock is hard as you watch me. I know I feel so lazy today, my wants just there, not complicated now as I watch you remove your shirt, your taut arms, and finally I rouse enough to wrestle you down and ease my cunt around you, delicious you.

The fan whirs up above, my head now dizzy as I fall into this desire, this want, this hot, wet need, your sweat, your love, your grinding grunt as you turn me round and fuck me hard, the luxury of your finger winding locks of my hair, heat radiating, your scent stirring me all the more as you let yourself come, now, yes, me, yes, slick skin, hot sheets, drunk wine, hunger, the night beyond.


Did I tell you about the peaches? I saw them there, these Hudson Valley beauties, in baskets, three dollars or so for the entire bunch of them. I stood in the pouring rain, and handed my bills to the woman at the counter. She pushed her hair behind her ears. No, she had never been to Spain, she told the man in the straw hat, who told her that he had just returned, that he was back now, that he was home. She looked away from him. No, she had never traveled to Europe, not even to New York City, she said, but her children had, and her neighbor had, and she looked at me with my dripping hair and took the watermelon from me, placed it on the scale, and then the cantaloupe, and the berries, same price as the peaches, but fewer of them. She said that it was not supposed to rain today, but here we were, the puddles now flooding the parking lot as I ran out with my bags and tossed them in the back, rushed to get in myself, and wrapped a beach towel  around my wet hair, and started the car.

I drove, drove on, forgot the peaches, turned down WFUV now in the driving rain, music now news, cars slow in front, cars fast behind me, the rain slowing, then stopping, then spitting, then sunny on the road that wound beside the railroad tracks, few cars, radio, “She Moves On” sings Paul Simon, little direction, the peaches now fragrant in the back of the car, so enticing that I pulled off and grabbed one, bit into it, bit my lip, juice running down my face in a sudden burst of sweet pain. I missed you then.

I missed you in the hot car, steam running off the streets as the sun hit once again, the corn green and tall here–nowhere else this year–and sparkling now, leaves hanging with the weight of the water, and again those peaches, I would feed one to you.

I would hold the peach so you could take a greedy bite from it, lick the juices from my fingertips, from my mouth, the sticky fruit no matter, in the heat, on a roadside, your salty rough face, calloused hands, shirt rolled up to your elbows, brown brawn, I want you. I want you there, that day, want the heat, and the clenching tight desire in my gut, the sweet lust for you, your lust for me, your company, and yes, sweet flesh, want you dripping down my face.