she was heat bound by curves
her weight
as she straddled me
played a cruel trick
of balance
naked thighs pressed
along my own
– poised –
almost elegant
except for the healthy
(fucking)
expression: closed eyes,
a smile between parted lips,
all sharp teeth and pink tongue
your breasts,
I thought
let me taste them.
and then
she lowered hips
and I stopped thinking
altogether.
Reading John D. MacDonald’s McGee novels makes me want to be a more robust man. A burly, competent fellow who can bounce on the balls of his feet and clean up a good woman with a few brutally honest words comprised of hard won wisdom.
Alas, I am not there yet.
But it is something to strive for.
My nephew just had his first birthday.
Last week I stood on the balcony of a beach house with my nephew in my arms, his small fingers wrapped around the slender silver chain around my neck.
I rested my head against his and was startled by just how blue his eyes were.
I began to count back the seconds, minutes, and days, trying to remember a time before the inertia of life had carried me past the point of owning such beautiful potential, when the grace of innocence allowed uncompromised belief.
I couldn’t remember that far back.