Inhaled Over Oysters

RMPbesamemucho
 A re-post of a favorite from about a year ago. Kisses- Ret

Lyrics to Besame Mucho :

Besame,

besame mucho

como si fuera ésta noche

la última vez

Besame, besame mucho

que tengo miedo a perderte

perderte después

Besame,

besame mucho

como si fuera ésta noche

la última vez

Besame, besame mucho
que tengo miedo a perderte
perderte después

Quiero tenerte muy cerca
mirarme en tus ojos
verte junto a mi
Piensa que tal vez mañana
yo ya estaré lejos,
muy lejos de ti

Besame,
besame mucho
como si fuera ésta noche
la última vez

Besame, besame mucho
que tengo miedo a perderte
perderte después

Besame,
besame mucho
que tengo miedo a perderte
perderte despues

que tengo miedo a perderte
perderte despues…

(gracias a Yolanda por esta letra)

Besame Mucho Lyrics on http://www.lyricsmania.com/ ]

kiss me
kiss me many times
as if this night
was our last time

kiss me
kiss me many times
because I’m so afraid to lose you
to lose you later on

I want you close to me
and to look at myself in your eyes,
to see you next to me.
Think that maybe tomorrow,
I will be far, very far from you

kiss me
kiss me many times
as if this night
was our last time

kiss me
kiss me many times
because I’m so afraid to lose you
to lose you later on

Oh.my. (fanning herself)  He had such sensual tastes in his music.

#for Reticent Mental Property

Thursday’s Man

rmptravelers2

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.

.

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

Postcards and Cork

RMPredmailboxEmpty mailboxes and blank postcards share no details.

Everyone counts on these facts.  This she knew.

That summer of ’44 she was blogging for a food and wine touring group.  She packed light, just the necessities; a few summer dresses, tanned and toned thighs, a comfortable pair of aviators.  On her fingers she wore several of her sterling silver rings.  In the bottom of the bag she tucked some hiking shoes and climate gear for explorations and in the last minute she threw in her flats and changed into a pair of black strappy sandals with the zip back and low heel.

Everything else she planned to buy in the local shops. What she didn’t have would give her reason to go into town and meet another shopkeepers, to track down another pretty place.  She never tired of  smelling of fresh basil and ripe tomatoes and wet earth in the markets.  On her shoulder she hung her laptop, on her hip her iphone, and all the necessary charging equipment and manuals and a box of beeswax candles rounded out her carry on.

They met in the farm kitchen around the cold stone slab where the owner was teaching couples how to seal the edges of the ravioli with milk and bind the layers with gentle fingertip pressure.  He stood behind her and slipped his hands under her arms, intentionally brushing against her hips with his lower arms and settling in with his chin casually bumping her temple and his hands mimicking her moves with the dough.

Months later, months that felt like days, she returned home and intentionally placed into the bottom of the middle drawer a faded picture postcard of the Umbria villa, and underneath she tucked the cork from the fat-bottomed bottle of Sangiovese they filled over and over at the local bar on those long sultry nights of one brief  but unforgettable summer of travels.

Neither had ever been discovered. Both had been touched.

This morning, the morning air was damp and cold, carrying the dirt smell of fat earthworms  announcing the spring temps just a few degrees warmer than the winter of the previous week.   Everyone felt gratitude and almost harbored a hunger for the sweat from the sun and the blinding blue skies.   It was the time of year when skirts and sandals need to be worn mid-day but the mornings still flaunted the power of ice and dared the bare skin to expose itself to nature. The body had to pull a sweater tightly across the chest and grip a warm mug of coffee, keeping the the steam rising to warm the chin and with each sip the taking warmth to the belly for safekeeping.

Every year when the very first day of humidity returned she felt the unstoppable pang of wanting for summer in Italy.

She reached under the slider and in the center of the old chest of drawers and carefully scooped up the cork, put it to her nose, and found her self strangely saddened in finding no trace of the red, no reminder of the hours of  merry making and loud conversations shared across little tables lit with the crooked, spitting, dripping candles.

She looked at the postcard wedged into the small space and as she traced the craggy line of the cliffs down to the sandy beach,  she thought she was prepared for the stillness radiating from the cardboard scene.   She found it odd no hint of the sea and certainly no spray touched her face when she took a minute to reconstruct the simple days they’d created while exploring the beaches and the sea together during that lovely summer.

Yes, it had been a long time ago.  But it happened. It really did. This was the proof.

She turned over the  photograph, and audibly sighed when she realized the half-scribble half-printed mesage was missing from the reverse.   As she flipped the postcard in her fingers, she felt a piece of her had gone missing but had been surrounded and captured in her throat when she found his penmanship smudged and crammed on the back of it.  His words shaped her vision of the rest of the Italy she would never return to see, and his words vibrantly painted the scenes of the Europe and later Russia and the Netherlands and half the world she had cut off the idea of ever visiting.

The postcards arrived haphazardly in the post box over the years, sometimes a handful at a time,  all dropped into the care of some family he had visited. Sometimes,  when he neared a bigger town, a few would be left at a random post overseas.

Sometimes there’d be nothing delivered to her red box for weeks on end, and she’d rest her mind believing if there were none, he must have finally settled in, settled down, settled for another life.

And just when she was sure she could forget about him, his words would be staring back at her from the dark mailbox.  She’d pull open the metal door at the end of the drive, and one would be there,  standing straight up, always affixed with more postage than needed and always decorated with his signature quarter note and the letters DEF penned in next to it.

As she pulled each card into the light she found the colors of local parades and church processions with gold crosses shone off the paper.   Over the next year, she grew familiar with the advertisements for local wineries touting flavors and soil specialties of the regions of Italy.   She enjoyed countless scenes of cobblestones and church altars and tiny cottages on green hills.   One year,  he’d written so many tales about his travels, his trips to the mountains, to the sea, to the little fishing villages and to the vineyards and the villas she thought she could certainly open a tourist shop and sell pining young travelers glorious trips abroad.

One place after another,  he made time to share snippets of his journey, the meeting of the local growers, his awe at the shared confidences by men who learned the secrets of the vine from old men, men who had inherited the cellars and the casks from great great grandfathers.

She could see him laughing in the sunshine, soaking up the lore and planning his return trips through the same valleys so he could meet with these new friends again.

As each postcard arrived she read it over and over,  drew lines with her index finger on the fading map she had hanging above the mantle and with this simple process she learned how far he had gone, what direction he traveled and how long it might have taken him to get from the previous stop.  Over her years, the matted and framed boot of Italy had moved from house to house as her life took its place over her dreams.

Later, when Italy had taken its fill of his questions the postcards came from random countries.  Each post card sent traced his reckless drive to see the countryside and touch the coastlines.  She followed through the postcards,  his crossing of borders and waters and city limits.  She marveled at the distance he made the fall and how he never returned to work.  He was a like a man possessed then, soaking up the history and hugging the old ladies sitting in the sun and giving back his own travel stories a barter for a bottle of wine.

He easily conveyed seeing the crazy men he’d met wielding machetes in Argentina and he traded for a place to sleep. He gestured widely, to create vivid stories of the hectic pace of the boat races and described the size and the engineering of the boat he’d built and sailed with his the crew along the same path as the World Cup race in San Francisco.  He shared a laugh while carefully constructed  characters and dangerous run ins with wild life for fresh crusty rolls and home made tarts .

Alone, for at ten summers,  he granted his adventurous tales during after dinner drinks with a few neighbors for a warm blanket and a quiet place in the barn to put his pounding head to rest after he’d taken more than his share of the grape to bed with him.

She read each brief missive over and over, and scanned them into her flash drive then touched them to her lips before burning them in the fireplace.

In the warmer months,  she ripped them into pieces and carefully dropped them into various refuse bins in the bathrooms of the cafes where she sat to write on mornings during the week.

It had been a long time since she had opened the box to trace the letters on the cork.

It had been a long time since she had tried to pull the spice of the wine to the back of her tongue.

It had been ages since she had touched that v in her neck where he used to touch her softly and kiss her after.

It had been a long, unforgettable summer again this year. And she knew the salty pangs of regret were standing at the ready if she let her guard down.

.

Her children were growing and beautiful, her husband solid and strong.  They made her a better person than she was,  but it was one Italian summer that made her more than a mother and wife. 

 #for Reticent Mental Property. Picture credit to the vast internet reserve of red mailbox images.

Immersion

RMPvillabedwhiteWrestle with my thoughts and break down my defenses if you can.

Force a subtle change in the bastions of my soul?  I dare you.

Make love to me on a portico overlooking the sea and with your thumb in my mouth, attempt to control the stream of lust laden requests for more.  It cannot be done.  Can it?

Fully immersed in my lover’s lullaby, my body responds to his promises and subtle direction.

Over time, we have created, together, our own little respite from reality,  a feat all but impossible without semantics woven into handwritten notes, gently penned on scented paper,  found tucked into pockets,  telling tales of the taking,  planned for much later,  and instructions about my role in my own undoing.

With a few short years of cultivation,  my heart and body easily travels toward your touch.  When I come across certain words, when I hear the click of the button lock of the doorknob,  or see a man’s hands shaped like yours, the anticipation hits me with a quick tightening.

My mind finds satisfaction in tethering your words to physical memories and in my heart, amusement,  when I am able to send memories of your touch to tactile presence, sometimes, in unexpected circumstance.

Yesterday,  the doctor’s hands brought you to me.   So very respectful,  but when standing in front of me, so close, and  then, when found holding each side of my head  and his fingers exploring my throat,   I could not temper my now instinctual response!

Without hesitation,  I whip into that malleable pose,  tip my chin to the side, and close my eyes and part my lips!

And he releases me,  just as quickly,  falls back into his chair,  and deliberately pushes his body to the farthest wall, as my mistake is amplified in his silence and my error announced through the speed at which my eyelids fly open and my breath is sharply pulled back into my chest with an audible gasp.

So, so memorable.

Our encounters are so easily pulled into my present.

And whenever I am near the sea,  when I pull the cork from a bottle of Italian grape,  when a meditative chant of savored words flings forward and alters my quivering voice,   I feel a reverberating reminder from a distant place where you and I played our parts.

My immersion, in service to you,  readily amplifies in my mind’s eye the wet of your mouth, the song in your eyes, the thoughts pinned under your suit and tie.

The pressure of your fingertips seems always  there, finding me wanting,  hovering,  just under the buttons of my blouse, where fantasy takes form while we are apart.

#for Reticent Mental Property with photo credit to someone lucky enough to spend a life traveling Italy with a camera and a mastery of the romance languages.