I sit in a chair and nurse my baby. No she's not a baby and she's really just playing, our last few weeks of nursing and I have only a few teaspoons of milk left. My tight, taut, huge mother breasts are gone. But she still loves the experience of it. She raises my shirt up to expose both breasts and says "I like it, I like it." She grins at my two breasts. She says "I want two nurse-a-bit places." She places her cold hands in the cavern between my two breasts and she says "Hot. Mama is hot." Perhaps this is a memory that will reside somewhere in her body to resurface when, much older, she becomes sexual and breasts become full of erotic meanings. Right now its just mama's body, fun to play with, nourishing, warm, close, fun to squeeze, intimate.
I close my eyes when we are done and cuddle with her in front of the wood fire. My mind shifts and I drift with images in my mind. Images from the past, from long before I was a mother, long before my breasts fed a tiny infant and later a toddler. I remember a bar with wood fire and a pool table and dancing with a man. The bar is called the Duchess, probably its still there.
We dance a Cajun waltz, a seductive three step dance. Our crotches and hips nestle against each other. Nice, smooth movements and the growing erectness between us. I'm shorter than he by 6 inches or and so I feel him jutting around my navel. A strong, thick branch resting there. I look up at him and we smile with our eyes, but say nothing. No acknowledgement of what is there, just a tiny bit more pressure and rubbing. I feel my vulva turn to sticky cake batter, ready to drip, needing a man's hand to cup it. I know that if we were somewhere else, he would undo his penis and slip it up inside my shorts. For I know that neither of us has any underwear on. We have left them in the car. The next song is a two-step and we move a little farther apart and sink in with the sensuous music. I look straight at his eyes. I am acutely aware of the erectness again there between us-only a cocks width from me.
When he is in tight jeans like now, his erection usually goes down the inner part of his right thigh because he wears no underwear to keep it nestled up. Sometimes, though he adjusts it up against his zipper to make his hardness less conspicuous. When he has done that I know that if I were to dip my fingers slightly into the top of his pants that his head and its circling ridge will be right there, held tightly against his navel, waiting, wanting to spring out, wanting freedom.
Some penises, when erect, are like weighted dolls, always bouncing back upright, always trying to snuggle up against their mans' belly, exposing their underside and their ridge. But I know his isn't like that. He is big and when he's erect, his penis juts straight out, straight at its target. I wonder what an erect penis feels like to a man. Does it feel a part of him, of his body, or separate? The head of a penis seems so far out there, separate, out on its own.
The music ends and we part. He asks if I want to play a game of pool. When I take the first break, I bend over, knowing that he is behind me, watching. We play a few turns and then I bend over, caress the end of the stick and begin to line the balls up. His finger comes up under my shorts to the crease between my vulva and thigh and he strokes, just a little stroke. My shot goes wild and he comes around and grins at me. He takes a turn and while he aims I walk over to my beer, pick it up and gently run my tongue around the rim. Then I put my whole mouth over it. He tries to hit the ball, but right before he shoot he looks up at me and the cue scratches along the edge of the felt. I remember once his housemate told me that she felt sorry for the women who are overtly sexual like I have just been. I have always wondered if she was referring to me. It doesn't' matter, I love sex games like this. I am playing a game with my lover and its our game.
My turn again and I take the cue stick, fondle it up and down and then bend over, making sure I am right in front of me. No pretense of actually playing pool anymore. He comes over and slides his hands up my tank top and encircles my breasts, pushing against my ass with his groin. He releases my right breast for a moment and I feel him unzipping his pants, then he presses again up through my shorts and I feel him enter me, just a tiny bit.
Laughter echoes in the adjacent room where they are watching a ball game. We part, both breathing heavily and adjust ourselves. Not a moment too soon, because someone comes in and watches our game. I focus again on the game, although my mind is in my body, its deep inside my pelvis. We play badly, to the end, where he wins and is challenged by the man who has entered the room. I know that later we will go outside the back door, in the dark and finish what we have begun.
While he plays, I watch idly, keeping track of his penis. I know that the ridge of a man's cock is the most sensitive, yet the shaft with its pulsing veins and blood full hardness is so enticing. The smooth tautness of the head, unlike any other part of a man's body. Does a man's lust shoot up from his penis ridge to his nipples? Does he feel it deep up inside his groin or is that a female thing because our vagina, our penis sheath goes deep inside us. Does he feel it only at the tip of him? Or can he suck it up, deep into his balls, to his belly and up through to his heart?
After it is released from the pulsing penis, does the blood rush all over the body, carrying the remnants of the lust and desire? Does it etch a searing trail in the body that remains there for all time, that can be accessed again with just a small reminder - a smell or an outline of a body? I know I have millions of these etches criss-crossing my body. Many I know and am familiar with; others are beneath my consciousness until I am triggered by a small incident and it comes flooding back.
Abby snores bring me back from the deep past of the Duchess, the dancing and the pool game. She is sound asleep on my chest. I gently take her upstairs and put her into her bed. Still surrounded by memories, I dig out some pictures I took years ago of he and I in the midst of a fantasy. In the picture, he has my slick, lacey negligee wrapped around his erect penis. I took pictures from in front of him and I took pictures from underneath his penis, looking up at the shaft. The picture reminds me of something I have forgotten - he has only one testicle. I vaguely remember him telling me that the doctors tried to get his other one to descend when he was a boy, but it didn't happen. I wonder if the skin and blood that was supposed to go into building the other testicle, instead went into building his penis. The thickness and length of him. I suddenly remember that sometimes it took him a while to climax. I wonder if it had to do with so much exposed skin and nerve endings, so much blood that had to pump in and be trapped. So much to happen before he could let loose.
Back at the wood fire, I sit, a mother, a wife, a partner and not to him, no I haven't been with him for more than 10 years. And yet I think of him, his essence fills my pores, my body. I wonder what's in his eyes when he's lustful, when he's out of control, when he's wanting so much that he can't back off. It's been so long since he and I have been sexual, that I don't remember this. My body longs to see that - to feel the intensity of his look; to feel that passion aimed at me.
