One glass of wine, an evening of talk; the back of tongues, the tip, how much saliva should be used — these are the things of which we talked.
One glass of wine, an evening of talk; the back of tongues, the tip, how much saliva should be used — these are the things of which we talked. Wide intentions and your foot beneath the table — how I wanted to sweep away the perfect tart on my plate and spread you open, purple flower blooming indecent in front of all those well-mannered people at dinner.
Friends, the other people at dinner were friends. But I wanted to make sport of them, seat them spectator, so they could watch me, eat you thoroughly, wet seeping into the tablecloth, your ass sitting plump on the tiny shaking table. In short, I wanted to fuck you, but there were people around, and conversations in which to participate. There were checks to be tended to — the tip, the tax, the signatures to be left.
Everything was in the way of my hand reaching under your shorts, your shirt — your perfect left nipple hardening under my tongue, my teeth grazing light over your flesh. I had to work hard to concentrate. Words. Wine. Wide windows with the warm summer shifting lazy outside the glass — your ass is the kind of ass one needs to place against a window, so that the people on the outside can see what you look like excited, from behind.
An hour after that conversation, you sit reading this note — to the left of me, I want to slide my body round — kiss you, maybe on your shoulder — tongue the scent of you musk from my imagination, pull you away from that text you are constructing.
Words. Too many of them slip unnoticed from my mouth inhaling you — something about the smell of you makes me unbalanced. Summer. I tend to blame it on the summer. But I suspect winter and fall could be fertile with the tart twist of you slipping up my nose, woes forgotten, I could eat more than your pink panties peeling over the pillow I hoist you onto.
Purple. That is the color of your pussy blushing. Full. Flooded with the feel of my fingers buried there. That kind of frenzy must be worth sitting still for a moment. Brown. Belly up and beautiful. I love the sounds you make when you come. Soft moans swallowing salt/slick/sweet — nothing sensible about the sex we have been having. But who the fuck want to be sensible at twilight? With a whole watermelon sitting right there on the counter. Uncut. And you, saying words pulled slow molasses from your pretty mouth — thick and dark, like the women who still walk the places I come from.
These are honestly things I wanted. But that was earlier, when I waxed poetic and ambitious. Right now I’m just poetic. And maybe a little drunk. From that glass of wine the scent of you. And since we are being completely honest; some nights are just for snuggling, for smuggling the sighing wisps of a lover into a familiar neck.
Tonight I just want to hold you. No dirty words between us. Not tonight. Let’s watch Angelina Jolie kick something with those long, long, long legs of hers. Fall with me deep into a quiet sleep, where we’ll dream of sandcastles and sunflowers and barely audible sweet nothings whispered softly into our ears. Forgive me, if I am falling short of my intentions. Tomorrow is another day, and I am certain that after a few hours of rest, I will again morph into the wildly insatiable animal I was before that glass of red wine.
(Staceyann Chin is the author of The Other side of Paradies: A Memoir)
