by Kathy Lynn Sliter
(06/05/02)
For You. You brat.
You Cat. You little sexy Kitten.
Look at you, walking in here like that. Wearing that ensemble, grape and tight on your thighs, slate blue barely holding your bosom, your dancer's pecs smooth, and...beaded with...Jeeezus, is that...raindrops? What did I do to deserve this? I thought I was being good, ignoring the call of the wild. I mean, you...met someone, and now you, an original, movement-based piece of Artistic Work, you have been...optioned. There is an intense spiritual fulfillment in facing and overcoming temptation. But... The Rain? I'm holding my breath, running the slides on the light board with my fingertips, my sound girl is saying something funny to us and you laugh and the raindrops shiver and all I can think about is licking them off of you. You make me nuts.
I know you have this girl, this babe, this Germanic something or other, Else or Helga or some such handle, undoubtedly statuesque and damned if you aren't all impressed with whatever it is she does for a living -- an acetylene torch, chains, something about chains, metalwork, what is she? Jennifer Beals in this the year of Our Lord 2001? Arc welding in the rain, her makeup and her temper still perfectly even after nerve-wracking intensity and a couple thousand degrees of steel soup in the Super-Sized tureen nearby. What...ever. If she's so all that, why would you look at me with eyes so wide and dark? Seeking? I don't know.... Me? Am I making this shit up? Could I be? No! Well...probably.... Okay, yes. Can't help it. I'm projecting. I want you.
It's my own damn fault. Please...make no mistake here. I'm not blaming you for my reticence. I've been lacking in the confidence department this past year. I was never ready. When I finally thought that maybe I ought to ask you...suddenly, there's a girl. Your girl. Crap. So...I procrastinated, wussed out, rolled over, and I in no way, shape or form blame you, precious Pussy, for that.
I do blame you for walking in here looking so fucking fine this evening. What right do you have?... Today, in particular? I mean, you're beautiful, even as the goddamned world falls down around our ears, with birds crying and workers dead and the air too full to breathe and some people live chaos and some live vengefully and some don't live at all and I just want to live long enough to fall down with you, fall down on you and kiss whatever my lips are touching, peel back whatever is in the way and slowly taste here and here and just...right...there...
I want your hair loose and crazy. I want you in a short skirt, something that rides up like that, easily, on your hips, baring muscles that ache along the insides of your legs, skin so warm against my cool cheek, my chin. I want to brush my thumbs over your nipples, feel them pick up my tension, hard enough for my mouth and my teeth oh so gentle, suck and pull and nibble. I want to tarry a time with your bellybutton, your unadorned adorable navel, the most innocent square inch on your skin, I'll be barbaric and ravish it with my tongue and think about what more I will find, my tongue will find, close to where I am, farther down and...I imagine...sweet...
Who?... Like a cool spirit passing through me...a tremor, inspiring a gasp and I close my eyes again to watch the tangle of fingers and toes and bellies and fur.
I have you naked, spooned in with me. I'm still dressed. You stretch along the length of me and I'm a hammock, your very own. I imagine my clothes are rough on your skin, but pleasant friction, the denim of my jeans worn well and sueded by familiarity. You reach back and slide a palm down my hip, fingers clasping my leg briefly, slight squeeze, and I'm grateful. There is very little familiar about the world outside now -- the city wavers, caught between fear and anger, its stalwart citizenry at times both wary and suspect. Trust is lacking. I breathe in the scent of the nape of your neck and reach around in front of you, hoping you trust me. I smooth your skin with my fingers, from the crease where breast meets ribbed torso to the very lowest, softest point, just above curly, curly dark hair. The flat pads of my fingers stroke downward, spreading out, below that wanton belly button, enjoying the tangle of thick loveliness unique to you, to a button more ready for me than I could've believed. Hard, slick, hidden orb, peeking from silky folds that I part, cool fingertips on either side of this throbbing point, to trace down a narrow, captivating cleft. I can't believe I'm here...I stop breathing and you start. I reach from underneath your cheek and chin, cradling your head in the crook of my arm, my unoccupied hand molding a breast, fingers nipping its raised peak. Both hands, in heaven, on you, and I want to be in you, I am so close and I want to plunge my fingers in, the lips there, your deeper muscles fervid and tightening around my knuckles, I seek that spot, that place that's longing for pressure, the release and rush, and I'll tease you until you're begging me, from between clenched teeth, you'll beg me to fuck you while I hold you there, you sigh and push and stiffen against me and against the landscape outside that door, it betrayed you, your city is no longer only yours as the rest of the world lays claim to it and it says "Yes" to millions who say they know it, and your City gives up it's secret story, intimate with any and all, but I won't, for this space in time I'm yours, only we know our secret story, I won't give in or stop or let go.... I won't let go before you do.
The end of the story is yours to write. Can you scribble down a hasty "Le Fin" and be satisfied with your work? Will you only go so far, and discredit the process that got you there?
I don't know. I can't. I suck softly on my knuckles, my fingers damp and earthy, and I'm breathing...you.
