How do you know when it’s time?

You’re standing there, nude, at the mirror;

Red, scrubbed and powdery fresh from the shower.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed not wearing much.

To me, you look the same as you always did-

Nothing’s fallen, nothing’s spread.

This moment used to lead to others where we would come together,

Slide, slip, push, grunt, scream and collapse.

Again and again.

Now you’re curling your hair telling me what I need to

Pick up at Costco.

(Was I supposed to be taking notes?)

I’m not really listening;

Busy trying to get sports talk through the static on the clock radio.

I let my eyes wander to the fullness of your bottom-imagining the dark secrets enveloped there;

The sleek firmness of your gym-toned legs.

Why imagine? I wonder. You’re right here. Just reach.

Not like I haven’t before.

For a moment I imagine my tongue like a frog’s-

Flicking and diving deeply between your bum-cheeks from over here.

A test.

I asked if you wanted to come back to bed.

We had time, after all.

Your reflection froze and said “Sure, if you want” with the same enthusiasm

Put into listing produce.

“Shhh, wait!” I said, holding up a finger, finally getting the station clearly.

“No, then?” the curling iron high-in a holding pattern.

“I’ll go make coffee”, I said. “It’s getting later…”

“Okay.” You said, getting back to the hair.

“And don’t forget it’s the frozen strawberries we want.

Not the mixed berries you got last time.”

Back to the mall…

Colorful asa jones

lifted from Asa Jones

As my wife’s birthday falls between Christmas and New Years’, I’m back to shopping, having long ago learned the hazards of trying to combine both gifts into one. A fan of dangly jewelry I came across this picture that happened, for some reason, to slide across my Tumblr. “How might you like this for your birthday?” I asked. She looked closely. “I’d love it!” she cried happily. Then-quieter, “Oh-were you talking about the bracelet?”

Saturday Night with Friends

“You say you would but, believe me, I don’t think you’d want the things I would do to you.”

She had no answer for that. Her husband was in the kitchen with Carol, two corners and an alcove away. Ice was tinkling and bottles were sliding about. They were jabbering over the music.

She opened her mouth again, her lidded eyes clouded. I dropped to a knee and grabbed her leg, biting hard into the leather of her ankle boot. Close enough to smell the lotion on her bare leg. She giggled nervously.

What the hell was I doing?

November Rain

 

Neon Rain.

From Tumblr-“Rain” blog

He had gone silent, the way he would, gazing over her shoulder as if absorbed in the shimmering neon reflected on the rain-spattered window. He got this way every time the subject came up. Or rather, every time she shot it down.

She regarded his jawline, his wavy brown hair combed over his ears and ached. She physically ached. Jesus, the guy had it all. Of course the looks had attracted her first-she could admit that. But then the job, the condo, the money…it had seemed perfect for a while. Then, this.

She didn’t know why she couldn’t get past it. Christ knows all her other lines had been drawn in shifting sands-why was this one so hard and set? Just the way it was, she guessed.

Would she have married him had she known about this two years ago? He would have been tough to resist; the security he provided, the doors that he opened for her. But this. Back then, she probably would have ignored it as best she could. Hoped that it was a passing phase. But now, it wasn’t passing. It was settling in and coloring everything. And now she had a say in what they would do and what they wouldn’t.

With an almost untouched beer in front of him he motioned the waitress over. Here we go, she thought.

“A shot of Grandad please.”

She reached out and covered his hand with hers. “Tony-come on…”

“Ah,” he said watching the traffic splash by outside. “November rains always put a chill into me.” Then, calling to the waitress’ retreating back, “Make that a double.”

“Tony”, she said, rubbing his hand. He shifted his gaze making eye-contact for the first time in what seemed like an hour. His eyes were bright and skittery. Frantic-water bugs skimming a pond.

“It’s alright”, he said, “I’m good.”

The waitress put the heavy shot in front of him. Before she even fully turned away, he threw the hot liquor down his throat. Ordinarily, he was a sipper. Liked to savor his whisky over ice. Over time. “Another,” he said holding up the empty glass.

She withdrew her hand from his and focused on the cracked wooden table top. Nothing to do now but hunker down and wait for this storm to pass.

 

Feverish?

IMG_1527

Are you really feeling feverish? Or are you looking for a reason not to go to work?  You’ve already missed the first bus dawdling over your hair. None of my business; you don’t work for me. Go in, don’t go in, go in late-that’s up to you. But are you sick? I can’t judge sick, I don’t know how you feel really. If you’re sick stay home.

But if you tell me you are feeling feverish…you know I’m bound to check.

It’s convenient before you’re dressed-come on over here. Just flop down. Chatter nervously about what is on your desk at the office as I take the top off the thermometer and snap the lid off the lube. Go quiet and lay your head over crossed arms as I spread your cheeks with one hand and dab a tiny dollop on your little butthole. A sharp intake of breath as I insert-then the conversation starts again albeit slower and quieter. My hand rubbing the small of your back, I listen.

The thermometer beeps, you push backward slightly, opening, so I can withdraw. You don’t ask, but it’s normal. Just to be sure I insert again. You flop your head to the other side and softly tell a story about your office mate, a woman I’ve never met but you’re sure I would like. I pat your bum gently as you talk…You don’t sound tense but I feel it back here.  Is it the poking or the prodding or the anticipation that the pat, the rub, could quickly morph into a slap-a spank or two-or more? The clock says it won’t. Not if you’re making it into the office.

The machine beeps again. Slowly I withdraw with a tiny wiggle. Still normal. You sigh. You guess you’ll go in. You’re all made up and everything. You draw yourself to your knees and, leaning over, give me a kiss-a deep, hard and long kiss. Something you’d never do once you got the lipstick in place. Thank you, you say. My pleasure, I reply. I’ll be here when you get home.

On Jeans….

From Chross

Those who follow Chross’ site (and if you don’t, why not?) have seen this picture. Jeans and a hairbrush-two of my favorite things.

Silky underthings or clinging skirts are fashioned to accent what they are concealing; on some level inviting an unveiling. A bottom in sheer panties is-save for color-about as bare as when the slinky garment is rolled down.

Jeans though, are cut from a sturdier cloth. They are woven to cover and protect. Pulling down a pair of jeans really does expose something that was meant to remain wrapped and hidden.

Yanking down a pair of jeans is a commitment.  It’s really doing something. (OK, it’s not exactly a Wrangler ad but it does give me a little buzz).

Jeans