Wine & Bodies

	Wet cotton.
	Ribbed, softened by time.  Little lines of 
elastic that wrinkle and pull along the sides, longing 
to mold themselves around a thigh.
	Right in the middle, bent and frailed, a tiny 
pink rose.
	Under his pillow for a year now.  Somehow it 
still holds scents and memories.  The perfume of her.  
Through tears and tares, lust and horror, clenched 
firsts and teeth.

	Outside it's midnight, in the basement it is 4 
am.  No moon, no stars, a mattress on the floor, and 
hurt.
	White skin, grey and black.  Dirt stuck on 
sweat.
	Remnants of an affair.  
	Silk things in the cement floor.  Shimering in 
the lightbulbs naked truth.  
	He is sick now.  Sick all over the bathroom.  
Sharp porcelain.  His hands keep coming back to the 
chipped sink.  Like an old wound.  
	He fingers it, imagining, his eyes are closed.  
	
	Good red wine.  The cork on the floor next to 
his foot.  
	The world is foggy now.
	Down below his hair is matted.  He is still a 
little wet.  In his chest is the memory of rasping 
cries, hurried words.  
	Some thick and powerful cull covers him now, 
after sex, dirty, half hard, half pissed.

	She is gone, gone.  Just a way to get through 
the night.
	Always the pillow is there and under it a way to 
go back.
	Back to Sundays and mornings.  Back to breakfast 
with bright orange juice and fresh, clean eggs.  
	Back to sun shining on her hair and the moon 
somewhere in the background watching over them.  
	Back to cold, thrilling kisses in the autumn 
rain and the sweet agony of being nervous.
	He would sever his hand just to be nervous 
again.
	Or afraid.

She sits on cold damn asphalt.
	She knows exactly what she was.
	Wiping her running nose, smeared black makeup 
under her white eyes.  Her hair is black chaos, her 
face ruddy and still blushing from the night and the 
wine.
	She looks alive, beautiful.

	Her memory creeps back to the night.
	Watching him in the spotlight cast by the 
passing cars.
	Fragile, feminine, tender.
	Her glasses on the floor, the wine, conspiring 
to blur the edges.
	Her tongue on his nipples.  Getting lost in his 
smell.
	He nose and mouth across his chest, under his 
arm.  Overwhelmed, biting, desperately hot in all of 
her clothes.
	She was on his mattress on the floor.  One knee 
was on the bare ground.
Leather pants, panties sticky with teenage fumbling, a 
tightening bra, complicated buttons, jewelry, hair 
pins, shackles, chains, fears, reservations, guilt, 
religion, parents.
	She was a girl on a bed.  Kneeling.
	He was thin and handsome.  His shirt was off and 
he was gentile, but not frightened.

	Black nails across all of his beautiful skin.  
There lips brushing at first.  Testing, tasting, 
teasing.
	Elegant at first then sucking and biting.  Lips 
on lips, rubbing sweeping, playing.  Licking her 
smiles, devouring her giggles.  Then tongues on 
tongues.  Sweet mouths open, hunting for more.

	Suddenly it was all too much.

	The clothes tightening, the itching between her 
legs, some maddening pumping in her veins, his sweet 
mouth, his lips, her breasts pressed against him.  Her 
hands clenches into fists.  Her nipples hard, rubbing 
againt the lace.

	Then as sudden as her world started spinning, 
she was standing.
	Awkward, fragile, feet turned in slightly, 
biting her wet lips.

	He lied on his back, looking up as one would 
look up at the sky.  Her eyes shooting stars, he 
wishes on them, but for someone else.
	This night isn't about them.  It is bodies.  
They both know it so well it is unspoken.  No 
questions about whose face they see, or whose name 
they scream.

	Her arms are up in the air.  Lost in the act, 
her eyes close.
	The shirt tumbles to the floor.  Her pants 
struggled and shrugged off.  Her brother's boots, 
clunk clunk on the basement floor.  Army green socks.

	The glimmer of metal on her navel.  
	Her eyes are open now.
	The bra, like some last door, is opened.
	Slipped off in the strange ceremonial movement 
that is ingrained in every boy's dreams.

	Thumps, tiny ones, slipping simultaneously, 
slowly, under to black cotton strips.
	When the cotton is pulled await from the skin it 
leaves little red marks, and little shadows. 
	Then sliding, inch by inch, second by second, 
year by year, down.
	Down.
	The crotch sticking for a second against her 
dampness.
	
	A few of his dark hair stick to his forehead 
now.  His head is slightly cocked.  
	Every inch of her is beautiful.  
	Her body is so perfectly white.  The curve 
between her legs shaved hairless, so the line of her 
form is undisturbed.  Only the stark black of her hair 
breaks her ghostly spell.  
	And those lips, red.  Matte crimson.
	
	Then she kneels next to him once more.  
	The naked matters slightly rough on her knees.  
As she crawls forward the warmth between her legs 
makes the small smooth lips of her sex part and then 
come together.  
	That breaks the damn.

	She is on top of him.
	
	His pants are only pulled down.

	Fists tight and lips bitten as she pushes down 
hard.

	His powdery dry cock, long, smooth, hard, 
slipping into her hot sex.
	Eyes closed so tight she sees lightning.
	Her knees are on each side of his legs.  Her 
breasts feel full and her nipples are so hard they 
hurt.
	The hair of his cock brushing against her 
hairless sex makes her frenzy.
	Back arched, crying out, fists on his shoulders, 
she forces her hips up and down.
	His ass tightens as he bucks to meet her.
	
	Then her eyes are open.

	She is scared of the need inside of her.  She 
has to go very fast now, she has to cum.
	Her body tightens and she starts to move her 
hips as fast as they will go.  She is frantic now.  
The world is only cock and hair and musk and rough 
mattresses and need.

	his hands are unsure of where to go as the Girl 
goes wild.
	The friction on his cock is painful.  Heat and 
wetness drill into his mind as his hands shake and his 
body prepares for the inevitable.
	
	All of the building and the itching and the 
yearning peek when she feels the tiny spirts of heat 
inside her belly.  
	She can feel each jet of his cum inside of her.  
Wet and thick.  
	Then her head is forced back by the force of 
orgasm.

	Muscles fluttering, heart rushing to keep up, 
body spasming.

Then the slow spiral down as she falls on top of him.

	She feels sweaty and delicious.  Hair sticking 
to both of them.

	
	After goes back to toy idly with the wrinkled 
panties under his pillow.
	
	Outside she finishes the wine.  Her fingers go 
absently with a ring she keeps in her pocket.

	Somewhere off in the distance someone carries a 
lock of hair.

	The sun rises.