pores of her skin, beneath the smell of sex. She has dimples and round little cheeks suspended above a smile that imprisons all innocence and softness in its pearl white cage. Her body is all long legs and break-neck curves. She reminds me of Tyra Banks or like Pam Grier back in the seventies when she starred in movies like “Foxy Brown” and “Coffy.” She has the type of voluptuous, wantonly sensual form I’ve always admired- no…worshipped!
“That love like the leaf must fall into the sear…”
Her breasts, unlike most, seem to have a remarkable aversion to the ground; gravity defying. They are larger than you’d ever see in the Miss America Pageant but firmer and more buoyant than those flabby pendulous monstrosities found in magazines like “D-cup.” She also has a deliciously flat stomach. She has mad body! A stupid boomin’ figure! I can’t tell what that ass looks like because she’s lying on her back. Of course there are memories to supply that information. There are always memories.
“That time will come on when remembrance deploring…”
We met last year (although I’m sure she didn’t exist until she magically appeared in my bed this morning). I was sitting on a bus reading a book. When I looked up, she was staring down at me.
“So how’s the book?”
It sounded like one of my “break-the-ice-quick” pick-up lines. Something I’d say right before: “Where’d you get your earrings?” Or “That’s a lovely dress.” Or “Are you a dancer/model/artist/actress?” I could barely stifle my urge to laugh. I thought I’d better answer before she started throwing a few of those lines at me. I closed the book, making sure to save my place.
“It’s not one of his best,” I replied, as I looked her over from head to toe, lusting conspicuously. She had the retro sixties look down. A perfectly round afro framed her face lavishly in a cushion of black wool. Huge hoop earrings dangled alongside her head clanking noisily as the bus bounced along. Her lips were full and pouty as she blew out her words like kisses. It was amazing how much she looked and dressed like my mother did in 1973. I was freaked out by how much it turned me on.
“He doesn’t seem to be trying, does he?”
It always annoys me when someone frames what ought to be a rhetorical question as if they genuinely expect an intelligent response. I know they do it only to prolong conversations that are better off dead and I always wish they were conversationally adept enough to simply change the subject. I felt like screaming to her “That was just the opening line! Move on to something more interesting!”
I wasn’t going to be the one to perpetuate this infantile dialogue so I decided to flip the script on her.
“So, what’s your name anyway, you sexy muthafucka you?”
It was too much. I knew it right after I said it. Or rather right after she turned on her heels and walked away. Before she retreated she let me know I had fucked up by catching my own piercing predatorial stare, that I always thought was irresistible, in her own hard dark eyes and crushing it. She threw me a more effective version of the look I’d attempted and I flinched visibly.
“My name is Lynn.” She said in a voice not unlike those stuffy asexual women that always seem to wind up as your immediate supervisors. Then she turned on her platform heels and walked off down the aisle. Her mini-skirt clung to her like white on rice and her ass was truly a marvel to behold.
I stood up and started to follow her to the back of the bus when I suddenly realized that she was very likely moving back there to avoid me and that by following her I would only look like some persistent asshole nuisance. I might even get my ass cussed out in front of the whole bus full of rush hour commuters. I was already halfway to the back of the bus and I froze there, trying to find a way to gracefully return to my seat when some teenaged, hippie, skateboarder loaded his pot-reeking, saggy-jeaned ass into my seat blocking my retreat.
I stared at her trying to decide if she was genuinely interested and reminding myself to keep my natural sarcasm in check this time if I did manage to get another crack at her. A good attitude has saved as many lives as a bad attitude has lost and Lynn was a true sharpshooter, willing and able to shoot gaping holes in an ego at 500 yards in the dark. I was in eminent danger of losing points on my player card. I looked to her for help.
“Do you want me to come or not?” My eyes pleaded, but hers were ruthlessly silent. She was paying me back with interest with this painful moment of embarrassment for every arrogant thought I’d dared foster during our brief conversation.
Just as I decided that the only way for me to get out of this with my pride and players’ card intact would be to act like this was my stop and simply exit the bus; she motioned for me to sit down. We had begun a battle of wills right then that ended with a circus sex marathon in the hallway just inside the door of her apartment. We had gotten ourselves so worked up that we couldn’t wait to get into the apartment before we tore into each other. After an Olympian session of panting and thrusting we called our battle a draw. We’ve been dating ever since.
“Yet still this fond bosom regrets while adoring…”
Lynn rolls over and locks those hypnotic eyes on me, bringing me back from my reminiscence.
“Do you love me?” she asks.
“That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear…”
I can tell by the matter-of-fact sound of her voice that she already knows the answer and is only seeking the comfort and reassurance of hearing my deep rumbling voice form the words. But I have no idea if I love this woman or not or if it even matters. I can’t possibly keep from blinking much longer.
My eyes have begun to itch irritatingly. I wonder what she thinks of the thick red veins that must be crosshatching my retinas by now? I wonder if she notices that I haven’t blinked in almost ten minutes? I wonder if I love her?
From my mind comes a staggering deluge of images. Memories of moonlit walks in the park, by the river, on the beach, down deserted streets; memories of dancing ‘til morning staggering around parties together drunk and giggling in each other arms. Memories of going to a dozen different movies, plays, art openings, poetry readings, or making love in a dozen exotic places, in a dozen exotic ways, and I realize that I do love her. That’s fucked up. That’s real fucked up.
‘Cause there’s no way I can keep my eyes open much longer.
“Yes I love you, Lynn.”
“Will you love me forever?”
Unwilling to get into a discussion of loves’ ephemeral nature, I reply instead with a kiss. I kiss her with the same hungry eager passion I bring to every experience in this timeless continuum where each moment is murdered as it is conceived. Our lips touch, and I send out my tongue in search of hers, to coax it, warm and slippery, into my mouth. I reel and sway in rapture as I nip at her lips and suckle her tongue. I want to devour her; to posses her forever as an intimate part of me, but I know that cannibalism is not the answer.
I’d only wake up in jail the next time I blinked and the cycle would continue, only this time with an endless series of big hairy convicts.
Not at all a pleasant thought.
When we separate from our embrace, she brushes against my cheek with hers. Bringing her lips to my earlobe, she whispers softly…too softly!
“I’ll love you always,” she says, “We’re going to have a wonderful life together.” Her voice has changed.
It is no longer Lynn.
I realize that in my ecstasy I have closed my eyes. I find myself not wanting to open them. Not ever again. But the heat of the body pressed against me is doing a number on my physical resolve, and a stubborn curiosity, originating from somewhere between my legs, begins to force my eyes open. A single tear drops from each eye and washes away the filmy residue that had built up on them, but unfortunately, fails to wash away the taste of Lynn’s lips against mine, or the rosewood scent of her perfume.
The woman in my arms, with her face inches from mine, is black.
Not caramel, or cappuccino, but gunmetal black, with long dreads decorated with seashells and little silver ornaments. Her breasts are small and unremarkable, but as I run my hands over her body, I find an ass the size of two of Lynn’s, that sits up high on her back and jiggles pleasantly when I rub it. Her arms and shoulders are hard and muscular, and her thighs are likewise carved of some unyielding black stone. She is obviously some type of athlete.
“I’ll love you forever” she whispers in a lush, smoky voice. She grinds her wetness against my manhood, causing it to leap to life and swell almost painfully erect. Before I can really get a good look at her, she disappears beneath the covers. As her lips caress my body, I notice that I’ve been working out in the time between Lynn and…Uh…um…Alicia. Yes. What a lovely name. My body is now ripped with muscle and her kisses fall expertly upon
