It's the mornings after we've fucked all night that I relish most. But, why? Do these diurnal moments compare to our tangled, sweaty couplings of the evening prior? Can they be measured against the number of times I screamed your name with abandon, chanted it over and over like a prayer, moaned it like an expletive?
In the bright and pure light of this late spring morning, I think they do. As I look out of my kitchen window and listen to the coffee machine percolate and sputter, I think they can. As I stand here in your undershirt with the taste of your body still on my lips and you still asleep in my bed, I close my eyes and remember your touch, your taste, your words -- you. I turn away from the window and meditate on our communal pleasure, and I experience it again leaned up against my kitchen sink, eyes closed, with a cup of coffee in my right hand. My left hand rests on the edge of the sink behind me. I can hardly breathe: my memory of you, of your body, paralyzes me in half-remembered ecstasy.
"Jo. What are you doing?"
Your voice interrupts my lusty daydreaming. In shimmying out of bed (and shimmying into your undershirt), I thought I had managed not to wake you. I look over at you and your gaze enflames my senses, my good sense.
You're standing behind the kitchen counter, awaiting my answer. Your expression is difficult to read, but the timbre of your voice is not. My eyes sweep over you: your shaved head, which I pushed down between my legs last night; your mouth, now with the same crooked smile I saw last night as you removed your belt and unbuttoned your jeans; your chest, masculine with a sprinkling of soft hair. From where I'm standing, I can only see you from your waist up — I can't tell if you've pulled on your boxers or not; I pray you haven't.
"What does it look like I'm doing, John?" I ask, and I take a sip of coffee. I saunter towards the refrigerator for some milk, and I feel shy -- giddy, even. We both know the chapter and verse of this scene, the unspoken rules of this game -- our game. I feel your gaze on my legs, my ass. I blush when I remember how you touched and possessed these parts of me just hours ago.
You grab my free hand by the wrist and slowly back me up against the cool metal of the refrigerator. You press your body into mine, and I can feel how aroused you are. Either you weren't wearing those boxers, or you've made quick work of them.
You lean in — your face millimeters from my own — and whisper, "It looks like you're drinking this ridiculous kind of coffee again, my darling." I laugh impulsively, remembering our first date: I teased you for being fussy when you revealed your incredibly discriminating coffee preferences; I, however, am not fussy at all, and you flirtatiously called me a philistine in response to my playful taunts. It is in these differences of ours -- whether vast or, as here, trivial -- where our capacious lust for one another was engendered, where it now breeds and incites further salaciousness.
Your blue eyes, bright and coruscating, flash in response to my spontaneous laughter, and one of your hands clasps over my mouth. You pause momentarily to bite the tender flesh on my neck (and you pause a moment longer in noticing how your teeth on my skin made me shiver) before swiftly extricating the cup from my hand, taking a sip of coffee from it, grimacing, and letting the porcelain mug drop to the floor. It shatters, and coffee swirls and trickles circuitously near our feet. We ignore it. You kiss me hard, both of your hands on my waist now, and I taste the coffee (now both sweet and deliciously tart from your mouth) on your lips and tongue. The flavor — your flavor — intoxicates me.
