Short Playlists

Her gateway drug was Patron...the path was to Heaven.
Chilled, almost as ice-cold as you could make it...where the viscosity of the liquor slowed into an almost Mercury-like spill...until she poured it into a shot glass brimmed with the thickest and glass-like salt crystals...and then thrust it back into her mouth like a dare...followed by a full on kiss that was a mix of the salt and the lemon she crunched after downing the fire.  It was like a first kiss on a beach with a sunburn...and ice cream dripping down your hands and you knew that her length was against you and you could feel her falling into you and then...she would draw away...the Tequila pulsating through your brain like it was inserted by a needle into your carotid artery...with pulse-quickening stares and a bit of salt still on your lips.

and later, with laughter...in the bed that was unbelievably large and stacked with soft white pillows and cool white sheets and you would feel the granules of salt against your skin and wonder how the fuck they ever got in the bed in the first place....and then you'd spy that lemon rind on the stand beside you...and you'd remember...and you'd have a short laugh to yourself as your brain settled back down like a leaf landing in Autumn.

He never met her father...never had the chance.  Nobody's fault except time and circumstance.
But he imagined...as he rode the great ferry across the vast brown expanse that he would be troubled...because he wasn't known.  Except by her.


He imagined a firm grip in a handshake...met with kind eyes after hard labor years...many others coming before him, many others rising to greet him and introduce and then say I'd ask your permission...
But she was the youngest of the group and despite her admonitions he always felt her father favored her the most...because of what she was...who she became.  Life on the farm, the peninsula...a chore but a pleasure...a task but a gift.

He never met her father...but each day he felt the strength of her, the composure...the gifts she brought to each day.

She never mentioned her father to him, except in his passing.  It was like they held a huddled conversation and then it went into the vault.

He wished he could have walked across that stretch of lawn...with leaves on the grass and the sun behind them...softening the day...this day of intrusion as he strode...and watched her father get up from his chair...a gentleman...and extend his hand. 

He imagined that would have been a very lovely moment.





It was the tub that parboiled their lives together.

Like a recipe from a grandmother's cookbook with carefully added ingredients, the perfect time and temperature just marinated them enough into perfection.

The casual glance across bubbles...the vulnerability of complete and utter nakedness...the comfort in disrobing...quiet gestures in silence...the removal of a belt and socks...the unhinging of a bra...the slide of pants and then exposure...walking deerlike into the heat of the waters....slowly...letting the heat pink the skin...

Curl the tips of hair finding the surface...slicking back the hair and letting pinks rise in cheeks.

Slippery.

Colors beneath the waters...clear and shimmering.

The splash of collision when coming together.  Kiss me in the middle, meet me in the halfway point of the tub...then retreat and lean against the sides...the slow drip from the spigot the only noise...as I get to watch the extremes of you...outlined against the bubbles and the warming waters.

You fill me like these hot waters, pouring into the vessel of me...abiding me and surrounding me in your clutch, your safe and elixir-like impact...the steam making me sweat a little but it's mostly due to proximity...your nude warm body beckoning...I steep against you...releasing stress and distractions...together in the tub we form a tea...our bodies simmering, resting...comforting.

Just add lemon....wait....no...that's for the Patron.



She was beautiful in the daylight...in full sun. 

She was exquisite in an evening...contours and angles...she possessed such a delicate slope, her face an artist's rendition of perhaps an angel...or perhaps a temptress...he could never tell because he had succumbed to it so long ago...

In the dark she was a scent and a mouth, a breath...an inhalation...hurrying...pulling, colliding.  Undoing, and unmasking.  He knew she was there, felt her...but couldn't see her.  But absorbed her.

Husk in a voice, a demand, a response...requests and compliance.  Instructions and chaos.  Movement and to's and throes...throes...

But in candlelight? 

Her softness shone through...her smile...quiet gazes...the landscape of her...like a world he had never explored...the salt of her oceans...the valleys and inclined hills...symmetry...he fit into her and she fit around him...

in the candlelight it was the time before night and day...neither side won.  Rather it was a time when the flame burned slightly on the outside but mostly from the inside of them.  Us.

It was hotter than the wick.