I put the blindfold
on as she finished the syllable. The
cloth bore a Spanish flag, red and yellow.
She pressed her palms to my thighs.
I stood upon my knees shins parallel to the wooden bedroom floor, my
heels up and toes pressing. The form of
my torso was at ninety degrees, skin naked, testicles hanging, penis not
requested to be put to use yet, ready like the open window.
Before the dark I
scan her bedroom, a charcoal painting of Tom Waits holds an accordion. A crucifix and opposing ideas alive in my
mind like two faces staring at each other in the shadows. A bouquet of tulips sits on the cherry wood
dresser in a clear vase pertly green with blue petals sheathing yellow
stamens. The scent from within the buds
mixes with a flicker of incense tinted into jasmine lofting spryly around the
rims of my nostrils emboldening my chest to rise like a race horse ready to
run.
The taste of oyster
and potato soup I made us for supper drifted upon my lips. The cuts of the shrimp stock for the base in
the bouquet of tarragon, parsley, and thyme bleeding in with the celery,
peppercorns, and salted crustacean shells brewing to a boil. The pot bursting as I made dinner the way she
likes it, steaming pungent into the corridors of her shotgun home. Two pots on the stove shaking over the blue
flamed gas bright like Venus tongues lashing heat smearing the gray metal into
red swirls of umbrage. The body of the
pan begs for a reprieve. She wants the
knob bent to the limit until the broth cannot hold. Bubbles pour from underneath exposed.
She likes when I
cook with Coltrane on the stereo, Kulu Se Mama or Ole. In dress shoes and a tailored suit I come
home from work with the cuffs of my shirt just past the jacket sleeves, my tie
removed hung from the cabinet left of the sink neatly facing the room. The buttons slipped nicely waiting like good
children for her fingers to slip in behind me, wrap her arms around my waist,
press her hips into my buttocks and thrust in a slow wave gliding her breasts
against my back, fingers like a spider making a web unlatching button after
button until biting my ears in full as I bend back my neck just so.
I hear the ocean
inside her mouth as her lips fully surround my lobe. Her tongue twists inside the folds as all I
can hear is my night opening. Some
evenings it feels like payment for visitation, for preparing sustenance on her
terrain. I stare into the granite
backsplash and the stainless steel of the range for a haze of her reflection. She has a thing about not making eye contact
or saying a word, as if that silent space would spiral out of control if either
of us had to put such directness in the contact. The separation heightens the sex. The spiral of knowing without elaboration is
lightning. The place is putting Coltrane
to the needle knowing what note comes next without a lyric to ruin the auditory
glaze.
The ears can do so
much if you just let them be blanketing the time to this moment, kneeling here
in her bedroom blindfold placed into the black.
We could be anything here, no lines, not walls, just infinity breathing
like the universe was simultaneously my exhale and her inhale trading in
particles.
She lights a single
candle. She takes an ice cube and passes
it across the August night onto my right scapula framing a V up and down
through the center of my back. The rims
of the blades drink the coolness as she maps her tongue behind dredging her
teeth piercing part of the flesh at the edges.
I think of what it looks like as if I had a mirror for the blood. I hold my torso firm as I am able rocking in
the creak of the cypress floor boards. Sometimes
she uses the candle wax, sometimes the ice.
She slides under me
pushing my knees apart, running her hands up my thighs and placing my fingers
on the top of my heels. I bend my back
with my chest pointed up to the ceiling.
My arms steady with my fingers like anchored Louisiana pilings. She puts her mouth around my cock and hums a
honey pot.
If I do not break
the pose she will continue. I learn to
be as still as man can listening to her beneath me sitting up on an angle as I
bend backwards. My penis is fully erect
giving second by second. I hold out in
two ways like aligned ideas. Two faces
stare at each other arms and shaft balance my heart to the ceiling. Hold out.
If I come it is all over. If I pull
up and out of her mouth she will still have me, but I will know this battle with
myself of manhood, of prone vulnerable and strong pressed I will have failed
myself.
In a dulcet tone she
speaks a single word, “Release.” She
slides down upon her back to the floor.
I fold forward lifting my hands to my sacrum then down to the earth to
the rounds of her breasts. She aligns
her pussy with my cock in the candlelight.
Her hands grab my hip bones as my fingers press the circumference of her
tits. She tilts up guiding my cock into
her throng hot and wet gripping me. She
takes her palm and swipes her hand slowly up across my chin through my lips to
the apex of my nose. I could smell she
had been fingering herself down before moist and dripping honey comb. Blinded she wipes me clean with her mark like
a soup ladle down my throat drinking droplets of her like dew breaking me.
We know I won’t take
this fold from my eyes until she tells me.
When that moment comes I will look into those blue eyes of hers,
whatever color her hair happens to be that month, but always those blue eyes. Those I know I am the only man she has ever
looked at like that giving me that, the most precious thing in the whole god
damn room. That is the thing about
control it is not always the one giving orders that has it.
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