Ok, I’ll admit, I’ve had a love affair with the bottle for quite some time. Mostly, it’s wine that I like. I can drink a 450 ml bottle, hit the road, and go past “Go” with $200 bucks in my pocket and a smile on my ass. Sometimes, when I walk through the door after a long day of smacking my lips, I can almost hear that round hard honest mouth calling to me in a siren’s tone of squeals and low humming. It’s all I can do to keep from grabbing the neck of my lover and shoving that nerve sizzling liquid deep into the oceanic sinkhole of my lust. This ain’t no disco, this ain’t no foolin’ around; this is passion all bottled up until it explodes like champagne in my face. I’m a winner, a champion, the best of the heap of the love-drunk. Go ahead, shove it as deeply as you can. I’ll surround it and lap it up, like a kitten in a barn full of squirting udders.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
He loved sitting on the couch, holding her small strong feet in his hands. Just sitting there, not speaking, watching the evening news, holding her feet -- that’s where things felt best. On warm summer mornings, they would sit naked together on the couch, watching Spongebob Squarepants, sipping on strong black coffee. The morning breeze flowed in through the open windows and doors and across their skins. Her small popcorn toes curled in his grasp and he could feel her distant heart pulsing against his fingers.
Her feet, like his, had pressed against the earth and felt its throb and buck and slow creep. They had carried her across thousands of miles of concrete, forest duff, mud, carpet, polished wood and sand. They had soaked in sun and rain, water and dust. They had pressed against flesh and flailed in the air. To him, holding her feet in his hands was like holding her past. He knew her better; he knew her secrets. When he held her ankles, or stroked the deep arch of her foot, or stabbed his fingers between her toes, he meant to keep her, forever.