Last night I dreamt of Isabelle.
Creamy caramel brown, locks of loose coils framed her face. She was Tuesday’s child: full of grace. She was lithe and long-limbed. Fingers were thin and lashes full. Her tiny lips were puckered and sometimes turned up with faint traces of a smile. I watched her chest move as she rested peacefully in my arms. This child was my child. And my child was perfection.
We were at a party of some kind, apparently for a family member: mom over to the side, sister not too far away. My grandmother’s voice was clear, even though she was not within sight. We were swatting flies and complaining about the heat. It must have been summer. I looked down at the weeks-old human I made with a man whose face I could not see, sharing a history I was yet to know.
I woke up with a smile that comes only with the rusty, metal smell wafting up from down south. Sitting up against the urge of my pounding head that was still reeling from tequila shots from the night before, I thought of Terrance.
He too was beautiful and brown; and the last man whose sheets I grabbed out of passion and superficial feelings before moving to Canada. Terrance possessed a lot of the qualities I wanted in a man at the time: older, taller, carved of steel, and the proud owner of a delicious iron pipe that curved ever so slightly to the left. Terrance was also a bit too shy for my taste and rarely made the first move, but was a passable gentleman who made a strong effort to remember the content of our shallow conversations.
We shared a mutual friend and very little else. We met at a party, where he drunkenly decided that “we would look good together.” There were no fireworks in our conversations, but I persisted out of boredom and curiosity.
But once the lights were off, strained conversations about current events and parties we attended were reduced to deep moans from bodies in motion. His maleness was novocaine and his mouth was the right amount of dirty.
“You like this meat?” he would ask, pushing it further inside me as he hoisted my leg over one of his angular shoulders.
“Yeah…uhhh you know I do.”
I pressed my nails into his skin.
“Well let me feel it.”
Soft squirts of satisfaction sold me out. I went in for a kiss.
We played truth or dare with trust: clearly unwilling to make it something ‘real’ but still wanting each other between the thighs in the heat of the night. Our ring of fire led us down a hazy non-negotiation of bare pleasure. With no birth control to rely on and secure in a false safety of our sporadic sexual exploits, there was nothing between us under the sheets. Warm outbursts of pleasure splattered on my back and were promptly cleaned up with care. Until next time…
Until the next time when the pleasure was a bit too intense, the stings of pleasure a bit too sweet, ‘cause we were a bit tipsy and angry at each other, but too hung up on the sex to stop.
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