Stockings, she regarded with her best friend between open walls one evening. She says,
“It's interesting, the power that underpinnings have...not necessarily a bra, or pair of underwear...but stockings, to me, have always been a rather scandalous and sensuous garment. Think of the time when the were first created...as a means to cover the actual skin of a woman's leg, to conceal that flesh from any who may be lured by it...yet the act of removing stockings is far more suggestive and sensual because it reveals that bit of flesh to the open...perhaps that is what we do, as women, as artists, when we write, we are ever so slowly removing our stockings to expose just a bit more of ourselves...
*
She doesn’t want to bother with toothpaste, doesn’t want to taste the mask of fake mint on his tongue. She watched a movie once where a man dreamt of a feast with a plainly beautiful woman, they ravished themselves, with wet lips and laughing between bites, kissing long and slow even before they finished chewing or swallowing, and she thought of the sex that would come after, feasting upon each other as they had sharing a table, a meal. And she knows now that the taste of a man is what makes the pulse between her thighs quicken, his pure raw taste.
*
"You are like a daisy in an overgrown yard,” he told me
Fate has a way of finding me in uncertain times, drags me from limbo and blankness. And now I find myself falling in love with him again as I did the first time I saw him. Silly girl, there is no such thing as love at first site. But there is when it comes to him. He is me, incarnate, of the male persuasion. He is the sweat on my brow and we can taste each other miles away.
“Cioppina, Arctic Char, Prawns, Diver Scallop, Duxbury muscles in a spicy consommé, peppadew aioli crostini.” All by himself and he made love to the thing until it was perfection, beginning to end. The endless line of hanging tickets is proof the sex was perfect.
Tell me you favorite protein, ready...go.
Fish, any fish
Not one over another?
…Toro, arctic char, monkfish, tuna...
Let's go with monkfish!
Ok, roasted with a little olive oil fresh oregano thyme sage and a little butter. To finish?
Whipped parsnips...or orange and carrot purree
Herb salad and pickled fennel and lemon
Credo...lime orange and a bit of coconut water...what about texture...crispy sunchoke...candy striped beats and blood oil for the citrus
*
You have become used to pale skin, the sepia tone sucked from those layers, along with the skin that brought melted air seen in rippled heat waves. You’ve tried to keep that brassy glow through the murkiness of winter with violet bulbs and vacations closer to the equator, terrified of becoming pale and ghostly as if you would evaporate with the colors of warm weather into a black and white still frame of cold nights nearly indistinguishable from day. But as you let that sepia tint fade, a new, pure, bar-of-new-soap clean beauty shone through. You enjoy the flush that penetrates the apples of your cheeks when you smile.
*
You like to be kissed in such a way that seems as if you’re enjoying a very expensive but exquisite dessert, patiently but devouring with all the energy to your lips. You love the feeling of his hands cradling your face, thumbs resting just below your jaw, near your chin, the following three fingers just barley curled by the apples of your cheeks. Perhaps his index finger would uncurl and find the corner on your jaw line and linger there hesitant but wanting, waiting to test just how supple that skin is…
*
