So while I am revitalising my brain cells with red wine in an effort to figure out how to say what I want to say, here's something else: a short short piece of writing that I have no home for. That happens sometimes.
|Painting by Lesley George|
Dance of Delight
I perch on the edge of the bed in boxer shorts, while her fingers whisper over my skin.
She starts with my hands. She raises my arms, moves lightly along the length of them. She flickers her fingers across my chest. Nudges my nipples until they withdraw in shyness, and drifts on down to my ribs.
She’s Melanie. Meh-la-nee. Murmur of milk. Melba toast melting with honey in the morning.
Once a year we do this, this intimate dance of delicious delight. And I pay her, of course. But it’s not like you think.
While she works her lips are parted slightly as if she’s about to speak. A tooth edge glistens with saliva. She has pale, behind-closed-doors skin. Four freckles one side of her elegant nose and three on the other. A faint flush of concentration on her cheek. Her eyes are brown, grainy with greens and golds, but she seldom looks at me. Dark, reddish hair is loosely knotted behind her head. A fringe like a wayward curtain.
She pauses between my toes, shimmies up my shins. She lingers on a bony knee as if she’s found something of interest, something that might prolong the tantalising tango...But no, she waltzes on with a light, deft touch. Parts my thighs.
I think about the delicateness of her earlobe. Nuzzling its softness. About her mouth. The fullness of petal pink. About putting one hand in the small of her back, drawing her between my legs, touching –
“Good work, Adrian,” my Melanie says.
My Mel, my belle. The mistress of my misdemeanours.
“No sun-spots today. Not even the trace of a BCC. Well done. You can get dressed now,” she adds. And she’s gone, on to the next dance, twitching the curtain closed behind her.