Key Chains

Filed Under pushing the edges | Leave a Comment

You were playing with the key at breakfast — an early breakfast, surprisingly so, and I was doubly surprised to see you at the table fully dressed so soon after the smell of coffee woke me. You were wearing one of your better-than-usual suits and sipping your black coffee while you turned the key over and over in your fingers. It was a small key, smaller than a normal padlock key and attached to a slim chain. I sat down, gathering my old rough bathrobe about my knees, and asked, “What’s up?”
You coiled the key and chain into your palm and put your closed fist in your wool-suited lap. “Court appearance,” you answered, knowing that wasn’t what I’d asked about. “If I don’t get Tindal an updated brief before I leave, she’ll scalp me.”

I allowed the misdirection and leaned across the table, robe opening across my bare heavy breasts, to tousle your short, mink-rich hair. “I’d never let her do that.”

You responded with a rude snort. “You don’t know her like I know her.”

I got up to get my own coffee, to be denatured with a ton of cream (one of several reasons I’ll never match your feline tautness) and as I reached on tiptoe for a mug on the second shelf, you asked suddenly, “Jen, have you ever thought about being tied up?”

The question made a tremor scamper across my shoulders like a tiny animal. “No.” It came out sharper than I intended. As I filled my cup I could hear you rolling the key chain in your hand. “Well I do,” you said unexpectedly.

I turned, retraced the few steps to the kitchen table, and sat back down. “Really?” You nodded, not meeting my eyes.

“How come?” A blush warmed your latte skin; I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen you blush. The tip of your tongue emerged, squirmed around your lips a moment and disappeared. “I don’t know. I just think it might be… interesting, that’s all.”

I tried to imagine you tied up; it was hard. As a stylish leather femme top, yes, with a cat-o’-nines in your gloved hands, your trim waist cinched by an open-cup patent leather bustier — yeah, that made perfect sense. But the other way, your sinuous body, as lean and graceful as an arboreal predator, tied up, helpless, waiting to be taken — that was hard to imagine. But I found myself getting wet trying.

“I gotta get going,” you broke into my reverie. “I want to make sure I catch the express train.” Your eyes were pensive. “I might be late tonight.”

“Call me?” I asked, almost plaintive.

“If I can.” You gathered up your coat and purse, snatched a last sip of coffee while standing.

“Lynn, is this something you want?”

You shrugged your coat on. “I’ll call you.”
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Anniversary

Filed Under afterthoughts | Leave a Comment

Couldn’t sleep last night. Took a long nap this afternoon and dreamed of you. All I remember is that you were holding my hand and I was trying not to cry.

And then I woke up.

And I did cry . . .

Hot Curry Nights

Filed Under the art of seduction | Leave a Comment

The curry is particularly good at a certain little Thai restaurant south of Market. We pilgrimage there on a Friday night, past the shops and shows and leather crowds on Market Street, to stand in line with the rest of the curry and satay lovers. We must look quite a pair while we wait. I have planned this evening minutely, dressed with special care. You have obliged me in wearing your cotton sateen dress with the long petal skirt that goes so well with your short jacket and cordovan boots. My leather pants, black bomber jacket and hair in a tight braid are selected to accentuate your softness this evening. Only you know about the sleeveless shell of peach silk I’m wearing against my skin.
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Desert Dreams

Filed Under afterthoughts | Leave a Comment

or Tall Women with Short Dark Hair

Living in the desert motivates you to get up early. Just on the edge of darkness is best. Get up, start the coffee and shuffle through the beat-up screen door onto the porch — the front porch in my case, because it faces east. Naked. That’s important. No one will see you naked on your porch at dawn and if they did they wouldn’t care. Desert dwellers are like that. You can feel the air, softer and cooler than any sheets, enclose you. Desert air feels very personal when the sun is just about to wink over the mountains, when the sky is stained with peach-amber fading to luminous gray and gray to royal blue. The last few stars who have not yet called it a night palely gleam and in the absolute stillness of dawn their winking carries its own music. So sit down on the porch step and put your arms over your head. Open your legs. Wide. Nothing should be closed against air as sensitive as this. And most important of all, don’t wake up.

Dawn in the desert is for dreaming. Holding onto dreams that teased you just on the edge of perception. Out here you can grab those dreams and take them onto the porch with you and savor them while you wait for the coffee and masturbate.

At least that’s what I do. I lie back on the night-cooled boards of the front porch and do the old finger dance for the Sun — the ancient eye of the voyeur gods. Orgasm flows out of me like syrup at that hour, slow and sweet, and the desert soaks it up. The air thickens with my wetness and as I breath in the honey and musk, I often say Thank you, I’ll take two — with cream. If the morning’s especially greedy I’ll have three; the desert needs all the help it can get. When I’m done, so is the coffee and it’s safe let it pull me into consciousness. I’ve got the dreams safely stowed, ready to take out and finger when it gets too hot to be outside.

That won’t take long. By 9:00 AM it’ll be hot enough that just standing raises a sweat, and by 11:00 the heat will have fried the new crop of pancaked road rabbits onto the main highway hard enough that the crows can’t scrape off anything more, although nothing will stop them from trying. At noon, it goes right through you, so hot and clean it hollows you right out.

By then, I’ve usually finished my errands and have my elbows down in the Ivory suds, doing last night’s — or last week’s — dishes, depending. That’s when I take out the dreams again. This morning they’re dreams of tall women with short dark hair.
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Tight Spots

Filed Under how to turn me on | Leave a Comment

We are waiting for breakfast — have been waiting for twenty minutes. The line is out the door and halfway down the block; about right for this place at 1 PM on a Saturday. (Good thing they serve breakfast until 2.) We’re almost inside; the door’s propped half open by my boot. People pack the entrance because the gusting wind is chill. In front of us are two couples with children; we are not partial to children, but these, although fractious, are contained. One has brought her bear to breakfast; you smile your approval.

Behind us is a trio of college students, very happy about something. One is a girl with bright copper hair punked up, hanging on the arm of a guy whose long black braid looks like it was dipped in shoe polish. The third is a girl too short to see clearly. I opine that they’re art students — they look like they all dressed in the same fashionable dumpster this morning. You tell me I’m too judgmental.

The wind crowds the trio into us, and the couples in front contract to give us a little room. We shrink into it. The line moves six inches.

You are wedged into me quite tightly now; arms around my waist, chin on my shoulder. Gusts blowing through the partially open door fan your hair across my eyes. Unexpectedly, your tongue makes a pass at my earlobe, and you whisper, “No escape — I’ve got you now.” Read more

Letters From First Light

Filed Under afterglow | 2 Comments

lux-12c.jpg It’s early. Grey dawn light sneaking around the drawn shades. You are lying against me, quite possibly asleep, your sweet perfect mouth near my nipple. The pillows have been jettisoned during the night — they almost always are — and the sheet has been kicked into a cotton crumple about our hips. Your leg emerges below, capturing mine at knee and ankle. The ghost light lies along your torso, just a bit paler than you are, lifting you away from me, denying your warm sweet weight. The air is close about us — close and personal — entwining our scent with that of the night-blooming cirrus beneath the window. I can’t make out your face, lost in shadow and the dark cloud of your hair, but I can feel your expression; there is a touch of a secret smile.

When I write the history of my heart, it will in large part be the history of that smile. Like you, it is full of sweet and earnest contradiction — a softness that hides a startling angularity; after all this time, I am still ignorant of its full dimensions. Like you, it is still new, still surprising. (Of course, you breed surprises the way a light rain breeds rainbows — have I ever mentioned that?) Like you, it grows faster than I can learn it — I have given my life over to be the student of a smile. This is not a waste to anyone who knows you.
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