by Donnie Magazino
(03/26/08)
Mostly I loved her reckless sense of passion. It was in the playful shriek that greeted me when I called her to find out who she really was. It was in her clumsily composed IMs, the way she typed like a panzer tank grinding through a minefield, as if thoughts and ideas and jokes and emotions and flirtations were simply too important to let proper spelling get in their way. It was in the way she savored every kiss as if I could disappear the next morning and so she had to taste my mouth and neck and chest now.
What I remember most are the times when our passion led us to places I would never have dared go alone:
The time we made out on a Greyhound bus next to a small sleeping migrant worker who snored away while a rusted rear window squeaked in time to her slender bare foot caressing my calf.
The time we stole away from a boring barbecue to wade through waist-high weeds to lie on our backs and gaze at the passing clouds that resembled freshly popped kernels of kettle corn.
The time I simply refused to stop swimming in the placid pool that was her flawlessly fleshy body and I didn't care about her seven a.m. flight and I didn't care about the nosy neighbors wondering aloud how long she could scream before her throat gave in. I loved the way her hips bucked upward to meet my mouth and her toes curled inward to say something that her muffled moans had somehow missed. And as her knees buckled when I found a trail along her ample ass and followed it home, I got the distinct feeling that she liked it. So I licked her more and more and she missed her seven a.m. flight, legs lovingly wrapped around my hungrily thrusting torso at precisely the time she should have been telling the small stern-looking blond (who was only doing her job) that no, her bags contained no perishable items or bombs.
And amidst the spastic dance of our happily crashing hips she deftly placed her ankles on my shoulders at exactly the time she should have been answering the plastic smile of another small blond (this one: friendly, but visibly sleep deprived) who told her where she could put her bags for what must have been the ten millionth time.
And she would turn and offer her generously rounded rump -- coquettish grin half hidden by the tangled mess her hair had become -- at the very moment she should have been taking a seat next to a matronly waitress from Kansas blessed with the hauntingly empty eyes of someone who wanted to talk to you about Jesus.
And her face would hit pillow, her hips would rise and my hard hands would grip the broad borders of her backside, steadying it for the coming torrent at the exact moment she should have been gazing out of the window at the ever-shrinking city below.
And she would grimace slightly because of the snug fit, rendered all the more intense by the quickening pace of my manic grinds as she should have been listening to the pilot tell her that some landmark or other could be seen on her right. She would see nothing but the insides of clouds.
And her tangled mane would spill forward and her throaty demands would surrender to short, sharp whimpers, and her arms would stiffen to gain leverage against the hard, heavy pumping as she should have been telling yet another small blonde that yes, she would like a drink.
And then we collapsed in a tawdry mess of awkwardly entwined limbs and labored breath as she should have been watching the Toronto international airport become life-sized again, while bracing herself for the never-smooth meeting of tires and runway.
And then we rose to our feet and danced to the music of her lilting murmur.
