speed limit

It was posted there, on the  left side of my brain, the speed limit.

I have been playing life way too safe.

My first car was a 72 Chevelle, three on the tree manual. The guy who sold it to me took me to a parking lot and took a few turns around the parking lot to show me how to let up the clutch, smoothly, so I didn’t kill the engine. Then he left me there. “Drive it back,” he said. “If you like it, we’ll talk money.”

I liked it.

Girls don’t drive muscle cars. I got that concept quickly enough when I brought it home. But I loved the thrill of speed, the exhilarating rumble of a revved-up engine, ready for green. Go. Go, I got my tickets, not many, didn’t get caught so often or talked my way out of most things, no excuses, just temporary insanity of sorts, drunk, not on late night beer, but on the temptation of a clear road, clear night, a car poised next to me at the light, his accelerator pushed to the floor, my feet dancing that balance between the clutch, green, down first up, down second up, down, third up quickly, and yes, yes, I raced him, raced far past the 30 mph, not to the 80 spray-painted over it, but fast, so fast, until he passed me, or I passed him, sometimes, or one of us killed the engine losing it all in those careless early shifts. But more often we raced close, not sure winning was so much the point as being there, and free, and laughing as we soared out alone past the flat fields .

i have been playing life way too safe.

I forgot the thrill of the limits, living at the limits, or better, somewhere beyond them.  Not on automatic. Letting off the clutch. Shifting into high.



My friend Jenny drove that night, your buddy up front with her, pawing at her, her pawing him away, and us whooping loudly in the back of her little Honda Civic, headed out beyond the city lights, through fields of soybeans and Farm Bureau reports, radio waves through the dark, dark sky.

You craved authenticity, you said, wanted to be with your people. Your people, my ass, Guggenheim fellow, you not common folk, not like the cheap beer and mariachi accordions and war stories that seep out of these sorts of places, rented out for an evening like so many rooms I have shared with you, peeling wallpaper authentic enough, I am sure.

No one knew us there, true, and I danced with the short dark man who asked me, until you returned from the bar and saw me there with him, in the middle of a sparsely populated dance floor, that little man with the slicked back hair, pressed pants, aftershave, the one who insisted te quiero over and over and over, ay Corona, I have a boyfriend. This man worked in the fields when he first came here, now works at the plant and I don’t know this sort of Spanish. These are not your people, love, no, these people roasting pigs in the parking lot and dancing polka-style. You don’t even know. They hate people like you, people who remind them that they are just getting by. They are like my people back in the city, the car factory workers, the construction union men like my daddy. I never wanted that, you know.

I wanted you, the scholar, wanted to run away with you. But you want this? you do not, you can always go back home, safe and sound. You want my ass in your hands while you pull me close and possess me in the moonlight, pull my hips into yours while we dance here, even here, everywhere, through cornfields and discotheques and grocery stores and stairwells. I try to run, but melt when I feel your cock pressed up against my ass when you finally catch me, in my short skirt, in my bikini panties, panties round my ankles while you bend me over, spread me open, make me a true believer. You, your bourgeois upbringing fucking my blue collar cunt. This is new  for you, this authenticity, authentic makes me want to scream if it means you want me the way I am.

Stillness, you sigh. My heart slows at last. And now what? Now. What?

It’s funny I say I loved you then. Funny I think back to that night when you told me that there was no one in the world you loved more than me, the best part of me, right? I wanted your mind, your promise, your hand in mine. You wanted me down, dirty, Johnny Cash late night whiskey checked shirt grit.

I was your exotic. I thought you wanted the me I dreamed I could be.

I hate my bitterness sometimes, hate to think back and realize that you never cared really about what I cared about, or that I did not know how to care for you. You showed me my place, put me back where I belonged, not where I wanted to go. Thrilling, perverse, brilliant, but it was never love. Liberation? Oh, if only to be liberated from that life. No, not even that. We both craved something deeper, but we would only destroy one another if we got it. Love is all I ever wanted. Love will set you free, they said. They probably were right.

It was all so long ago, though, those foreign wars so faraway, and yet my stories stare me down, reflected in a beer glass late at night. Oh, but no one wants to hear about unrequited love anymore, not even me. Best to forget. Best to move on. Best not to think of what might have been, of what never was.


I wish for this, for the mundane, for the everyday.

It seems elusive for the outlaws in this world, love, the misfits like me. Like you.

I want love. I want to make you dinner.

Flannel shirt unbuttoned low, scruff beard brushing my face as you pull me close. This is the stuff that others have, that I want. This is the stuff I dream about.

Your muddy shoes lie askew in my entry hall, just like you, your fevered touch, your breath hurried on the first step, the step up to my bed, your cock already in my mouth, here. I can never deny you. I want you, too, want too much, want to please, know I please you now, then, tomorrow.

But it is not this, never this, never the trickling down my deepest throat, no not my fingers dug deep into your throbbing holes. Not my climax, the satisfaction of my frantic moans in the night, your tongue on my clit, your cock pumping me white, to limp, still wanting.

I want you, want your skin, the shirt you wore while working, your warm hands in my hair, late in the night, sleepy night.

I want you to want me.


I want you to need me, to wait at my door in the night, late night, night of desperation. Knob Creek sending you to me against your better judgment. I want you to want me in your drunken unconscious moments. I want to be there, then, because I know you know better.

I know you want me, then, know that your mind wanders, that if you had the time, you would run away with me.


Satiated, I knew it right away just to look at you.

But anticipating this, there is always room, isn’t there?’

The garden waits now, beans, carrots, lettuce, herbs. Run barefoot through the mud to pluck them from the ground, toss then into the sauce with such wonder, such pleasure, such hope of sharing this, that, your fingers so fine and so precise, your hair tossed back in the wind, clumped to your forehead in the sticky heat, dripping from the shower onto my skin, my skin released from its modesty now, unhooked, unzipped, yours, a taste. As you wish. No, in all honesty, as I wish.

At its most simple, the Saint-Honoré is a cake of cream puffs and cream, but it is magical, that combination of memories, the tender, the delectable, the faintly sweet but familiar. You watched me stir, then pipe it from the pastry bag, a puff, the cream, beat firm but not too stiff, too dry. Just right. Teeth through to that glorious full softness, you remember, love, don’t you?

I am here, half unbuttoned, perfumed, half drunk, katydids chirping, tree swing on a hill, the night, the moon. My feet touch the ground every so often, love, take a bite, make a wish, honor this, soar.

feu sans artifice

I walked back into the half-lit bedroom, the morning already swelling, fine linens wrinkled and damp from a night of quiet sweat. Yesterday I covered the windows with dark draperies, shield me from the heat, the invading sun.

It came, anyway, sweet irresistible summer, long longed for, in the ice barren hard ground, seems anything would be better than that bitter void, lone white world. It was, the ferns all green growing, thick, the Queen Anne’s lace, hard to tell the flowers from the weeds in this sort of place, hard to know until you see a real flower, a rose, a daisy.

Your skin still smolders, body inert so strange now so familiar in my bed, arms so powerful wilted now, fireworks forth, dreams took you, at last, I see.

The air is fresh outside, I know, breeze from the bathroom window cool in the early day, lawnmowers next door rousing me from my own slumber. But no, I barely slept.

It was not the heat, the hum, the long line of light streaming onto the floor from the edge of the window that awakened me, love. I waited for you, waited years, love, wait weeks now, habit of lust, your smile renewing my faith, for now.

You lie so still, no revelations, discreet charm disarmed me. Your arms, too strong not to let you, not to let you trace your lips down my face, my neck, my toes reaching to tease you, despite this, despite the suffocating heat, desire. Don’t. The thrill, the exhaustion of exertion, wanting. No, no, so much, too much, overwhelm me with green, groan. Oh I want this quiet so much, in the morning, you now, defenses gone, stripped bare, this kiss, tender, gentle, seeking, true.


“Spread them open, baby. ”

So I spread my legs a little wider, leaned back and sucked on my pearls.

“Like this?”

It is one of those evenings, when the day has been long, when the grass is hot and long, needs cutting, when I know you have poured me a glass of wine as my car pulls up, see you tucking in your shirt, standing straighter, trying to tame yourself quickly, trying not to let your prick betray you before I even get in the door.

You kiss me, that sort of kiss, you know, when you are pressing in to me, but trying not to ask for too much, trying to pull me away from the day and into the grass, but gently, a sip, a gentle hand through my hair first. Yes, yes, you love me, want to fuck me more right now.

You made dinner, I know, caught the herbs and wine as I walked up the path toward you, anticipating. My god, how lucky, how rare to be lusted after, fed well. How rare to be loved.

I wore the stockings, love, the garters, damned impractical, make me think fuck all day, make me think forever of you, of why, think all the way back here, think of your hum, your dazed anticipation when you kiss me, your hand hitting the fastener, your cock pressing into me, so hard, so big, I see it when I close my eyes, take another drink. You tip the glass toward my lips, and I look up at you, that glance you like, don’t mean to, look sideways at you then, turning, and slip off my shoes, slide back onto the couch, not like a lady, but like yours.

“Yes, just like that,” you say, stroking your cock now, biting your lip.

I have worn the silk blouse, the navy fitted blouse and the circle-patterned skirt. It was a public day, you know, my lingerie for you, though, slut I am, want, slick slit now betraying me, scent heady as the wine as you bow before me, lap at my pussy, swollen, it’s all swollen, ripe, wanting.

The clothes are irrelevant now, take them, rip them if your want, spread me, skin please me, please now.

all i have

A photograph may last longer, that is true.

But is that what we were seeking? Or did we wish only for the ephemeral, the winged moments that no glance so searing could ever capture?

I saw it again, though, as if it were yesterday. I felt the warmth of your kiss, tender, in the fleeting grin I stole in that picture, captured in a turn of words you wrote to me, song we shared, a handkerchief. The things I had forgotten, now return to me, like the sunshine on that rare day, an everyday but not today. I wish it were.

I wish you were here, that the space between moments and miles were short. But I feel it still. I grasp your scent, your voice, close my eyes. You are close, an angel holding me tight, safe, thrill, somewhere familiar.