skirt

it was dark there was no moon there were no stars to light the scene we were cloaked in midnight with only a brief flare from your match as you lit a cigarette, a tiny bomb of hot spark as you drew the smoke in and then darkness again. we stood face to face in the musty back alley behind the pub, our hot whiskey breaths commingling in white eighty-proof puffs. you did not know this yet but my nakedness waited for you under the supple cloth of my black skirt. cold wind rose in a tiny cyclone from the litter-strewn cobblestones and found its way between my thighs and i shivered from my coccyx to the ends of my red ringlets. i shifted and gravel crunched under my feet, naked and bony inside the black suede pumps. in an uncommonly delicate gesture you placed a hand gently over my heart and must have felt it drumming madly, hammering out the shape of my need, the ancient need for stroking whispering touching cold chapped lips brushing opening to hot wet tongues, for breasts and buttocks and cock and cunt.

we had not spoken; we would not speak.

i took your hand, your right hand from my breast and held it for a moment, the skin work-roughened, calluses at the end of each finger. you, my rough trade. i curved my own small cold hand within your meaty palm and let you curl us into a double fist -- the smallness of me rolled within bigness of you -- shivered and inclined my face to yours guided in by the whites of your eyes. my mouth made a small 'o' shape and i held my breath. you dropped and crushed your cigarette and took: one hundred years to close the inches between our mouths. i went old and gray waiting i whimpered with need i counted off days weeks months. and finally your mouth covered mine and that hot snake that wet muscle your tongue assaulted my throat. but i am a tough woman, i know how to fight; my tongue pushed back, rolling against yours, making way for air and i breathed and you breathed and we backed apart like wrestlers at the sound of the bell and a tiny strand of spittle stretched between us and then broke. i could hear you panting. i heard the nightwind sigh. drunken voices slurred nearby and passed. i backed away from you backed myself up against the cold ragged bricks of the pub's back wall let those bricks snag and peck at my silk shirt, felt the sharp pokings against my shoulder blades. i uncurled my hand from yours, turned your palm up and leaked a tiny pool of my hot spit onto the fleshy pad and brought your hand to the hem of my skirt. i mewled softly and spread my feet apart and pulled your hand up the hard curve of my cold thigh with its white-blonde down softer than the fluff of newborn chicks softer than the petal of a rose. i kept my eyes on yours we blinked together and blinked again as i moved your hand toward the v place where my thighs join. i trailed your fingers along the puddle of wet that had clotted at my thigh tops; your breath left you in a fast outward 'huff.' my smell that slightly monkey smell that musk that wheaty musk swirled around us. and you, you who'd been wandering the globe for weeks you did not know i had let my dark-blonde fur grow back to cuddle to circle to protect my pretty pink meat. when last you'd made your way to my bed i was as naked as a newborn there. i took my hand back and left yours to explore. you leaned your weight against me against the punishing bricks and roughed my skirt further up my thighs out of your way you were like a snarling beast then, breath heaving in hot blasts from your mouth your noises primeval beyond and before language.

but i understood.

and then your grubby prehensile fingers were at me at me the way no lover before has gone at me. the bricks wore through my thin shirt, tore tiny holes in my skin. a faint, delicate lace of my blood would mark this spot.

and the near full moon crested the roof of the pub and we were: exposed.

©2007 by Kat Cox

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kat cox: human, woman, worker, thinker, writer, eroticist.