The Honeymoon

I love this woman. Adore her. From first long held kiss to now much time has passed. Finally, we are joined. She is naked, has shaved her mons pubis and I hope she did it just for me. Her shapely rounded cleft shows no hint of fuzz, nothing to indicate she occasionally dangles a razor there. It has the fresh scent of roses, lemons, talc and deep within the sensational odor of musk.

My mouth is dry as a desert sink; my lips desperately need her moisture. Not yet do I push down, nuzzle into her feminine flower, embrace her smooth labia with my rough chin, retract the folds, and pierce deep inside. It is too soon for such an expression. I wish to draw this out make this moment as languid as humanly possible.

My lover is flat on her back, legs stretched out, toes straight up toward the whirling ceiling fan. Damn, why did I not think? Have her wear high heels, those stilettos. What a mistake.

Arranged on her back, I will, with one powerful thrust, reveal to her the true nature of a man.

Her eyes focus on the sluggishly circulating fan blades. I am reminded of W. Somerset Maugham, the Raffles hotel, the Elephant Bar in Kuala Lumpur, lotus scented tropical nights. She is trying not to notice my presence, to blot out my attentive bequeath to her needs, let the magical mystery swell at her center; enjoy this hash of hot lava cooking, boiling over. She may spontaneously combust and I look for the nearest jug of purified bottled water.

Slender arms flung out, elbows bent, slim forearms angled toward the sides of her brunette coiffure, her hands, palms up makes her arrangement of upper extremities resemble a bare skeleton of un-feathered wings. She might be sleeping or an angel from on high fallen to earth. You got it bad son. Her face looks dormant, indifferent to my attention but within she glows with an indulgent interest in my avaricious mouth. Her ex-husband was not gifted in such maneuvering. She told me so. I wish to be noted for this particular skill. A difficult proposition since she is French.

Myself naked, on my knees just beyond her extended left leg, my aspiration is to see impatience; an eagerness for me to commence an exploration of her feminine trough. My left hand is on her left side near the swell of her hips, right hand lying flat on this side of the bed, up towards the flat pillow. She does not favor fluffy fat pillows nor sleeping on the right side of any bed. How do I know this? In a previous interlude we came close to taking it all the way home, then backed off, waited for later. Now the waiting is over. She told me of not liking thick pillows or right sided sleeping accommodations. This after a festive dinner of Japanese food serviced by ancient Mamma San in a turquoise kimono serving portions of raw fish, Yamada Nishiki rice in blue china plates covered in white calligraphy looking suspiciously Asian, chopsticks and chilled Sake in tiny, fragile emerald blue cups.

What did I bring to the table? A bit of pot bellied excess, too thin hair with a widow's peak as a tonsorial reminder of my father. A tension in my trousers under the linen covered table too. My ex-wife thought I had too little chest hair, spent too much time browsing bookstores. I also have cranky sinuses, a way too big nose and a wealth of useless minutiae in my noggin. Oh, and most importantly my unfettered passion for my darling dining companion is what I brought.

Outside, a block from the restaurant's front door, standing in the pelting rain, me holding a black umbrella, she started to get into her sleek hybrid Metsusabi Taon. Her hair was a soaking mess, a rain drop hung precariously on the tip of her nose, her prominent cheeks shined with dampness. Her cream colored raincoat in repelling the rain was semi translucent, smelled of the rain. I leaned over, gave her a long kiss, assisted her in getting into the car, watched her fasten her seat belt and then drive off into the night.

Later, long after this pleasant meal on that rainy night in Alameda, in Hawaii looking down on Pearl Harbor, she introduced me to Connie and her husband the Major, her eventual next door neighbors when she moved into a house she was remodeling at great expense. The house has a veritable jungle for a backyard and a number of thick trees on its downward slope. I imagined someday being the one to trim it, hack out the brush and vines, use a machete to cut out a trail, and build a couple of benches for us to sit on in the coming years.

The Major, 83 years old, tussled gray hair, nodding off in his patio chair, quite demented, earlier that same day for reasons known only to him, had pulled up every one of my lady's flowers. On his patio overlooking Pearl Harbor with me sitting across from him and V talking with Connie somewhere in the house smelling of rancid butter and muscle ointment, the major remembered with crystal clarity being in gig on a Sunday morning when the Arizona exploded, showered him in heat, debris and mutilated body parts. Connie, the Major's silver haired wife was still trim, sharply acute and perceptive, proudly boasted of meeting Perry Como in 1958. Leaning down over my shoulder, pouring red wine in my glass, she tells me their oldest son's name is Steve as mine is. At 83 Connie still flirts ably. V and I being the juniors at this little fete were commandeered to get the gas grill going. Connie nearly lost it, screamed in a panic as the grill, improperly hooked up by the major, suddenly squirted out flame and nearly cooked my family jewels.

Tonight my mission is to have her taut as an aerialist's high wire. My aim is to compress every experience with my tongue, lips and mouth into her juncture, fill it with such an abundance of favor she seems to die, spin out of control. Panting, breathing like a laboring runner, my sharp instrument, precise, pointed at the hilt is a tool sowing my love, planting in her deep furrow my good giving mouth. In making love to her, I wish to bestow my best work, to give her my sweetest gift. I cherish this woman who has given birth to another man's child, the ex-husband not suited for being where I intend to go.

Above her on this connubial bed, I am amazed to be in this good woman's company. She is so open, so unaffected and so breathtaking; I dare not take advantage of her amiability in this bed we are sharing. I love her; feel ennobled by her. In this darling woman's shadow I am a prince, a dare devil gifted in tension making, dream weaving, in offering release, sustenance to her hunger, to fill her lonely corridors with warmth and sweet mirth.

This glorious moment filled me with such exultation. I heard the rumble of thunder, heard operatic melodramas playing in my ears, a cavalry charge at the full gallop, blustery windswept vistas played out under my eyelids and blue lightning blinded me with its furious wrath. She is a gift to this body of mine, an adored and magical essence saturating my senses. My need to love and be loved feels so welcomed here. I, a normal man with an abnormally passionate nature, appreciate her gifts; wish to needle pleasure directly into her womb. Show her H.L. Mencken was wrong. Female orgasms are no myth.

I have sent her bouquets of roses, sprays of chrysanthemums, boxes of chocolate-covered truffles, loads of cheese and crackers and cellophane sealed sugar coated candies. I imagine her reclining in the quiet of her single bed, nibbling this candy, reading a book, her eyes focusing through little wire-framed spectacles perched on the tip of her nose.

After our dinner in Alameda, we shared a meal at her place; I watched her wash dishes, tell me her decision to paint the kitchen wall behind the sink basins a vivid red color. We spent an enjoyable evening searching for classical and jazz CDs we both favored and then drank a few too many frozen margaritas in a Berkley bistro.

When she returned home following a week long trip to Florida dealing with her mother's legal issues, I picked her up at the Oakland airport. In baggage claim, surrounded by tired travelers, their nerves frayed waiting for the next terrorist to do his deadly deed at 40,000 feet; I welcomed her with a drawn out kiss. Her enthusiasm mirrored mine. I felt it in my most inner recesses. I gave her another moist buss of such ardor, of such eloquence she reciprocated in kind. Holding her tightly, one hand on here back, the other on her hip, she was forever imprinted on my consciousness. At once love sick, I felt her closeness blending into me, bonding at our molecular level. Felt her yielding with the most incredible liquid suppleness to my lovemaking in this busy terminal made so uptight by circumstance and modern times.

She had shown up wearing comfortable togs, her hair tied back, a look of consternation on the fine features of her face. Tired from flying there to here, Miami to Oakland, she radiated loveliness from every pore, class sprang from her every movement and I could see such beguiling warmth. A smile broke forth on her face.

She is my nostrum remedium. Her sweet body soothes me, acts on me the way drink captivates a drunkard. I want her.

On this bed she is utterly relaxed, not moving, not twitching, quietly looking at the pale sun brushed ceiling painted by the two of us. A job in which I was messy, she was precise and neat.

On a Sunday we painted her bedroom yellow. The color of orange juice, an egg's yolk it looks to me. Warm, sunny, full of great gobs of light and vitamin enriched. Her on the step ladder, me on my knees across the room, I wanted her off that ladder, rolling around with me on the paint stained drop cloths cloaking every thing we wished not to paint. Is it not said we regret most what we don't do not what we did?

I remember a lunch of toasted French bread served on delicate saucers, savory salads in layers of tomatoes, onions, peppers and grated cheese whipped up in two minutes and served in earthen stone bowls, a carafe of her house wine to wash down the salad and bread. The two of us outside, washed in the pale northern California sun, sitting on the steps eating our lunch. Me, what was I doing during her food preparation? I was reveling in the closeness of my company to her.

With me at this moment her mouth remains tightly shut, I study the pleasing dimensions of her face, the straight angle of her nose, the texture of her lips, the density of her eye lashes, the sweep of her chin, the manner she looks at this or that.

At this point I must say her short yellow tartan skirt positioned about the knees is my favorite of what she wears. I relish it as nothing else she wears. The way she looks in this garment fills me with such liquid warmth. Possibly, I may write a poem celebrating its sexiness, its brazen skill in raising me to the loftiest heights.

It is time to move, re-position. She expects me hunkered down, my mouth directed into her, showing my competence, applying my technique. Who am I to disappoint her? Not me.

The two of us in Tiburon tops my honey do list. Spend several nights in the luxurious accommodations of a twelve room hotel with wine and cheese tasting every night, his and her terrycloth bathrobes, a balcony looking out on a restaurant, the wooden landing used for dining pinned in by sailboats and yachts is generally filled with patrons all day and into the night. Beyond the modern yet quaint hotel, the short Main Street with its art galleries and antique shops, several bookstores selling used books, a community theater in a narrow building is the choppy current of San Francisco bay and Angel Island covered in gauzy mist early mornings and so close you can spit on it. Sausalito off to the right where she once purchased a painting after much consideration and way way out in the blue-green water is broken Alcatraz being circled by tour boats. You can see the bridges, the San Francisco skyline, the wharfs, the ferry building and the rise of hills the city is built on.

All these memories recorded in my head come forth when I am in her presence. Happiness, the glow of my passion burns brightest the nearer I am. She gives me such energy, her attractive body, her sexy long legs, her quiet ways, her dazzling intellect; all of it does me in, inflames me. I might spontaneously combust myself.

I lust for her, wish to touch and taste and caress her, lean down, lick an ear lobe, report sotto voce my intentions, bob my head up and down in her groin. Have her do the same thing to me. She gives me a sidelong glance, reveals the perfect conformity of her ear. I am made speechless seeing her do this. Suddenly, I am the slobbering prehensile cave man protecting his love, the knight championing his lady, the beau protecting her virtue. I am all these things. I am masculine and brawny and fleshy male hardness. I attribute this to her femininity, her love, her attention to my needs at the expense of hers. The confidence she affirms in me.

In this warm bed we make love with the greatest deliberation, the closest admiration. Two mature lovers from poles apart attached and attracted to one another. Embracing each other, bonded in body, soul and spirit, we are at the highest plateau of intimacy. In this age of free-wheeling sexual action, one night stands, the harbinger of death dealing body fluids, we feel safety in our devotion, security in our fidelity. Love is our life boat, our parachute, our Mae West, our blazing strobe light in the cruel, dark sea.