Morning, Noon and Night

I left this for you in a special place, one lodged in a spot between the folds, an episode neatly wrapped in your own secretions, a directed commentary whispered into your canal by the light of an unwatched TV.

From time to time I like to go exploring, peel back the layers of nice and neat to find what pulses in the shadows, a sensual journey awaiting the selected souls who know how to go deep, who can slide through the fences made of inhibitions, those who can make the rest of the world disappear.

I remember when my eyes opened to find me between your lips, daylight cascading through the shutters like something I might have snapshot. But my hands weren't free. One of mine pulled you on top of me. The other brought concrete nipples to my lips, A third eased down a back lubed with sweat, a liquid slightly different from the drops that rained down on you as your calves flexed against my shoulders, the smell of fresh coffee looming over it all.

The buzzer rings at one o'clock. Unlike Bleek, my practice was made to be postponed. Parasucos and Nine West capped off with the baby tee with Sade on the front. I am not your man. But that's kind of the point. Pussy is so much better than pudding.

A Benjamin in mani-pedi is nearly smashed to bits with the way you grab the sheets as I pushed toward heaven. My tongue traces the outline of an artists rendering, an image of angel dipped in ocean blue. Our engines rev as we run for the border. Our reservations are few. You reach up under and touch as I go in. You drip when I come out, the coolness of you rolling from me to the warm fabric below.

For you there's nothing more arousing than a man who is focused, he who can give himself to a task without interruption. As my fingers find keys to articulate ideas you have a message of your own that needs translation. I do not let people into this space, a sanctuary owned by the ancestors and my own guiding light. But there's just something about long stems straddling my hips, your flesh covering the scent of the day, your voice in my ear, your fingers in my mouth.

The screen switches from on to to sleep as I fold your over the end of the creaking desk. The poor piece of furniture begs us to stop. But that word ain't in our vocabulary. The clock is lit by moonlight when I think of time next. You glow the color of pain in the darkness. Even the best things have to hurt a little.

You remind me of the time I cut away your panties with scissors and of that morning I fucked you in the stairwell of your place of employ, your hands pressed against the AC compressor, your screams of passion muffled only by my hand. Like the sun it was a given that you would go down, even when I thought you hated me.

Sitting here between dusk and a morning, I can remember everything my senses told me. I can tell the tale of the tape, but the bodies in the ring have turned to dust a million times over. I always remember when Winter turns to Spring, the crossing of legs attached to a face that could have been yours. I still breathe you when the air is thin. You still feel me when flops around on top of you, using that face the dude in the porno taught him. That makes it all worth it. Doesn't it?