We were like kids, all day long sleeping around in nothing but our underwear and blankets that twisted and rumpled us into our own magic land of wanderlust. Between our carnal moments of pure passion I’d feed her citrus fruits that would sting the sin off our tongues. There was no Western movie script office, no bills pulling at our wallets, no jealousy, no wandering, no eager eyes or the next best thing. We did complete each other.
We were hustlers and lovers. Not gangsters. We didn’t thump our rap in our chrome rimmed mobiles, we didn’t include bling in our vocabulary. We were class that believed in perfumes, curls, a kimono, shoes that announced ones arrival, low light, martinis.
In the evening she’d sit around reading from books like Understanding Witchcraft, Seduction, How to Love a Man, and Being a Proper Housewife. We’re talking stuff straight from prohibition era, when a suit and tie was what real men wore to the bar, not ripped up jeans and a backwards hat.
From time to time she’d get up and stretch the largest stretch I’ve ever seen. She was a Yogini, so it was desire to watch her bend as she did. Her breath would catch with mine and I’d flow with her qi. Mostly I think she was weaving her spells she’d just read about, leading me into a place I really didn’t mind being at. She’d eye me, and flip me that focused kind of smile.
‘Service with a smile’ was her favorite saying. She’d come back into the bedroom with a plate full of some delicacy she had just concocted and beam with those words written on her mouth. I would always laugh, eager to see what my next feeding would entail. Never let down.
She would leave that bed when it was her time to work. It was always a rush because we’d both hold off until the very last minute to get ready, keeping our naked skin touching that so pleased us both.
She was one fine specimen of the female variety. I would crawl up and down just at the very thought of her being. I would coo softly when I’d get to hold onto her hips. It was hard for me to tell whether it was this very act or another more carnal act that pleased me so. The pure thought of it sends my heart into emotional fluttering. Often I’d watch her dancing around the room with transparent fabrics lightly floating around her as she moved [for me].
My favorite time of season was the autumn. The time of season when the fresh bright greens and floral yellows and purples and reds would fade away into earthy tones of death and decay. I’m not sadistic; it’s a time of connection to life and death. Pure. The anticipation of winter’s cold, the preparation for warmer clothes. Closing the windows and sweeping the sidewalk and laying bare all trees that stand in mother natures way. A transition we have no control over. Serenity.
Julia would pull out her old mukluks to wear around the bare wooden floors of the apartment. With these and her panties on I could hardly stop myself from enveloping her. Exploding with a passion aching to jump out of my skin and hunger for more. She knew this, and would smile uncontrollably when she knew this was where I was at. I never left her wondering, she had asked me not to.
Do you know what it’s like to have an unbridled passionate outlet, matched ebb and flow for carnal desires?
[note: to read full epic follow dragging left wing]