Chaser

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday. The little place in the country, the one still standing despite years of bands and hardwood dance floor abuse from men dancing with men, twirling actually with drunk men, completely heterosexual mind you, but just wildly letting themselves feel the base and spin at the same pace as the brain after a few hours of brandy old fashioneds downed between sets.

There’s a steady stream of locals and newbies, and very little reinvestment into the place as evidenced by the one stall bathroom and the lack of a decent top rail scotch. Still, it’s a good place for dancing and a great place for not having to talk due to the volume and a spot with a $5 cover is frankly, hard as fuck to come by these days.

Linda, she’s a blonde with a history that she can’t defend but recognizes that she’s not perfect either and she brings along the latest add to her crowd. She loves to dress up, has on a spaghetti strapped sequined black top and her best elastic fabric white jeans and at my request, strappy sandals that just barely emerged from the car before removing the toe spacers they supply at the local nail salon. She is so grateful she noticed and pulled the from her toes before she walked up to pay her $5 cover.

I’m behind Linda. I’ve got a grey leather jacket without a wallet. i need to exit and return with my id and my cash. I do so. I pay my way in, walk to the bar and order a blueberry vodka press for my friend and a corona with lime for myself.  $14 later plus a goddamn tip and I’m across the room waiting for a chance to dance.

Linda is the dancing kind. She knows the words. She knows the breaks and when to stop dancing. She knows the songs, and has a reference due to her good friend’s escapades in the past, she knows he will stop being a coherent fun tag-along, she knows she’ll have to babysit the drunken fucktard until she acknowledges she does dance, does it well, and does not need to make anyone happy.

Yes. She has to buy her own drinks. But it is worth it. No putting out for guilt. Instead, she puts out that she is turned on and capable of bringing the same. 

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# for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

 

Can’t settle in

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Let’s not confuse settling down with settling in. One is an end, the other a beginning. There’s an implied discomfort with settling down, at least for me there is, an implied restricted constriction of blood that flows to the important parts. A little PTSD, trauma induced by expectations labeled security, marriage and tradition.

Let’s look at settling in.

It’s that shimmy of the hips when you are in bed with someone who spoons with you…the movement that can mean a comfort arranging snuggle position or an invitation to full on, full-bloomed love making frenzy…a snuggle that lead to the latter if you are settled in.

It’s that time when you leave the door open, relieve yourself, wipe and wash hands and don’t close the door. That’s settled in. NO. IT’s NOT. Don’t fool yourself.

Settling in is when you move in syncopated harmony in a two-ass kitchen. You know, the tiny kitchen that you have in your first place where there is really  not room for two chefs but it is so romantic to cook together, to cut the onions because they make her cry or simply because you have to have them cut  in a certain way and you know she’ll just butcher them and then your mouth will have to feel small onions and big onions and it will mess with your tastebuds and your whole fucking experience of shared kitchen tasks.

Oh, that settling in…it’s when you make a plan for an 9am yoga practice followed by coffee and you find yourself awake at 6am and fully aware that you have to either roll over and wake him up from a soft, flaccid, non-wet dream moment and make him grow in your mouth and create a major bed-shaking all out crazy morning of love-making where the sheets slide off the end of the bed, the pillows get jammed between the mattress and the headboard and when your alarm goes off at 8 you hit the dismiss so fast that the yoga instructor knows you are not showing up today because you are getting your downward dog on and do.not.need.an.instructor.

That’s settling in.

She figured that settling down was overrated, oddly, she still found herself aiming for it. WTH?

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#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

 

 

 

Fledgling

 

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There’s a man at a desk, clears it at five, imagines the after-work nest.

There’s a man at the rail, nods with a sigh, sends over a drink for the lady.

So many are waiting, inhaling the chance to breathe air with another,

to roll over and see someone in the light of the morning,

to reach toward,

to tenderly touch the bone of her chin, the line of her nose,

to know if she is what he calls his

to see if she feels like a tomorrow under his steady gaze.

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Settle in darling, he says, his elbow anchors her hip, his arm climbs her frame with wrist securely tucked in soothing fashion to hold her in the fold of his protective wing. 

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#for Reticent Mental Property. Sept 26, 2016. 

A Physical Presence

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Criss-crossed, my legs are in your heat, tucked under the rail. The tan purse from my shoulder rests under my elbow – the one you knew to look for upon my arrival. Your face is not turned toward me and I like the casual stance you are trying to take. There’s a busy bartender pulling the tap and trying to make conversation but she’s not listening to our answers and we don’t hear her questions.

You set the popcorn between us, don’t mind if my hand dips in the bowl when yours does. I wait and take a few kernels, you do the same. There’s a bit of the white that falls to the bar and you swipe it to the floor with the side of  your hand. Somehow a salty small piece takes to the corner of my mouth and you think nothing of reaching and holding my jaw -fingers open to the flesh under my chin – as you use your thumb to flick it off a ribbon of lips.

A bit distracted by your forwardness, I put on a smile and brush the same place with my fingertips. I grin with a bit of discomfort that I find I have but don’t hold long when I’m with you. We talk about golf- you don’t play anymore. We talk about your place and the storms of last night. We check up on the children we both raise, keep raising. We talk about nothing but manage to lean into each other, frequently, shoulder to shoulder a little shrug of acknowledgement of the ease of sharing our worlds.

It’s time to go.

I check my phone and reach out to shake hands, palm to palm, a solid touch, firm and strong no matter the heated tone of the conversations we end.

We used to kiss goodbye.

I look into your eyes and find your gaze, hold on to your attention longer than your hand.

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Cheers to happy hour and good listens. Cheers to verbal battles and the chemistry of banter.

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

 

Overused

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Life finds us pulled in opposite directions.

When I wake up it is a new day, but I’m still trying to pull back the weekend’s sunrises.

Monday’s sun shines in the window, finds my face, slowly brings me to waking and with eyes open, the pillow cradles this mind for longer than it should, while my heart gets a grasp on our priorities.

It is another day of away. Repasser.

I climb from the bed, stretch my hand to my drawer where I pull the phone from its wired recharge, fumble the password, twice, and look for the little blue envelope telling me your words are waiting- slumbering and still sleeping maybe- but here, nested in the palm of my hand.

You are my peace.
You are my tranquil.
We find a center, a balance.
Slide over and wrap that leg over me.
Place your ear on my shoulder close enough to hear my heart beating as yours.
Palm my rib, stroke my chest, cup me,
Breathe me in.

There are so many ways to express the connection, yet repeated I love yous are both inadequate and necessary food for a lover’s daily consumption.

In my stubborn grasp lies wait the possibilities I choose to crave.  I know better than to selfishly cross boundaries but I allow it, this time, because I simply cannot deny myself your beautiful heart.  I love you is nearly enough, but not. We are worth more.

You are here, slide over.

Groggy good mornings whispered hot on my neck before the rising

Just wanted to share this bite of blueberry pie with you

Lie back

Hold my hand in yours, like we do

I want your voice

I want a time when I don’t have to miss you

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One day at a time is the plan. She pulls his Saturday shirt from the drawer, pulls it over her head drinking in his scent. Thumbs to her waistline, she drops Monday’s panties to her ankles. In one practiced movement she kicks them up to her fingers and slips them under his pillow for Tuesday’s return.  

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

Watch It

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Sit with me at the corner of the bar, at the turn,  where I can whisper my thoughts in your ear and you can run your fingertips over my knee.

We can both look at her from different directions.  I’ll find her eyes in the mirror behind the Johnny Walker and without my knowledge, you can let your eyes travel over her blond tresses and the curve of her beautiful posterior while she stands waiting for her drink to come across the rail.

You should know I don’t mind.

But you like to think you are a gentleman.

And I like to let you believe you are.

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Treat him like a man. Get to know him.  And then let him be himself. 

#For Reticent Mental Property.

Thursday’s Man

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Thursday’s man is made of planful decadence.

He’s busy but has his lover on his daily schedule.

He’s from out of town, travels well, packs light; in his leather satchel the bare minimum, all quality.

When he arrives his long coat flaps behind him down the hallway, his shoes hit heel first on the tiles muffled only by the cuff of his jeans slouching over the worn leather to the floor.  With casual grace, his hand reaches back to take hers. But she’s not his companion this trip. He’s accompanied instead by spreadsheets and laptops and morning meetings with clients who know what solutions he’s bringing to the table.

He uses the key, settles in, throws the duvet back and closes the drapes. He unclasps and slides the heavy metal over his left wrist and leaves his Rolex sitting on its side on the nightstand.

The late news is tuned in. He untucks his starched blue dress shirt and makes his way, piece by piece, button by button down his person. Pulling, unzipping, shedding the fibres of his deal-making day from his body until he is once again his own man, standing as his natural self, his body just a mans, his priorities of his own choosing- for a few more hours.

His desires are of his own design.

He works late hours and endless leads, pulls his weight and makes things happen most can’t or wont.

He’ll retire early, has the second place in Chicago, his city, and over the years has smoothed the rough edges on mistakes he made in the past, prays with gratitude for his tomorrows and makes peace with those he once let go.

The rest- the fantasy brought to life, the powerful raw of his need for connection with a wild adventurous heart- is of his own making.

He has her.

He is enthralled with her devotion to letting his imagination fuel each rendezvous.  He believes finding her is fate, believes her muscled thigh was created for his hand to caress, her mind his to unfurl and open and expose to his raging heart.

He has meticulously cultivated her want for him over tumultuous liaisons during conferences and business travel. Her intense missing of his cologne, his touch on the low of her back, his way with words feeds her mind via electronic devices they rely upon for connection. He locks in her greed for his mouth with brief interludes via skype, in passionate kisses at airports and then culminates the long lapses in union with loving on her as he moves his hips with hers in draped fourposter beds rented on holiday.

His tender attention to her most vulnerable flaws is endearing. He secures her desire with his unwavering assurances, telling her he can handle her giving him, in equal measure, the kind of love he offers her in the moments they are together.

She is free to feel and let herself fall into his arms with no threat of promises to be collected in the daylight. He asks only for what she can share in that moment.

He whispers her name and her beautiful face finds him behind his heavy eyelids.

He leans back into the pillows, imagines a day when the schedules permit him to wake her in the night, maybe twice.

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His body was just a mans, made the same as all the others more or less, until he called out her name in shuddering syllables and put his hand to her jaw, turning her face so she had to look into his eyes as he found her deepest sweetness and then she let herself helplessly transform into his woman.

#for Reticent Mental Property