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.
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| 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.
