narcissa

sitting in the early evening sun in a sleek bar in north beach on a national holiday a monday flirting with the thirty-something barkeep who knows a good bit about wine particularly italian wine and i have told him of my september trip to florence and he is unsettled by me i can tell i can always tell they lose their bearings no matter how hip no matter how worldly no matter how young and i am in heat and i want to score the supple flesh of a man's bare back with my short nails while he pummels me punishes me pushes himself into me into me into me and talks the whole time in a low and breathless voice telling me how magnificent i am what a fine fit lioness i am how my cunt is so tight a vise a pulsing vise being inside me feels like being inside of his own oiled and knowing fist and i am brimming with that hot cream that has startled more than a few of my lovers I am remembering one of them, vin was his name, just as he let go of the controls and pumped his hips and filled me with his own stuff, on the rooftop of his ratty downtown six-story building in late summer me with my white eyelet cotton dress pulled up over my naked hips, hot wind tangling my long red curls straining up on the balls of my feet in their palomino colored pumps why was i wearing pumps with that dress it doesn't matter it made a beautiful tableau on that urban rooftop with that dark haired lover me with my pale northern european skin, and then he was gone to new york and i went on and on we all do life pulls us along whether willingly or not we're hardwired to go for the ride and the years trip and flip and rip away and i am a beautiful woman with a spacious heart and a mind that slides and glides and searches and destroys and takes no prisoners and will not tolerate mediocrity shuts down in the face of ordinary a mind that houses my sex my need that shapes the men i want before i ever have them in my sights a mind that strains at the leash wants to run at redline until the gears start to whine for mercy but never mind we are

back at this sunstreaked bar late on a san francisco monday afternoon and i am exuding sex and do not look the part in battered jeans and long-walked boots but men old and young and in between look, cannot help but look want wonder i sense their cocks rising in their trousers as they make their way through goblets of very good wine and conversations with mates on overheard subjects from bioengineering to baseball scores and plates of cured meats and garlicky spinach and molten polenta and i am shimmering, alone at this bar in heat and knowing it would take more pluck than i have in my toolkit to pick one of these men up and take him: with me to my nest or to his hotel room or down a back alley in the dropping sun in the growing dim and i cannot bear the heavy logistics involved the conversations the maneuvering i cannot bear to be met on any other than my own terms and so i stand, take the hand of the young barman who is flying tomorrow to costa rica for whom i have tucked an ardent and overly generous tip under the bar napkin i take his hand and wish him safe travel and he wishes me the same and i move through the double-wide glass door into the slant of late sun and make my way onto the well-traveled avenue and feel the large wet spot between my legs soaking through the stiff faded denim crotch and begin my walk home.

©2006 by Kat Cox

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