Sharon Lynne Thompson
Beach fog glazes the window. I dance for you within the warm room, pounding lust the only music. Music enough for bare feet on pine ...wood floor to recognize movement, to invent a stomp, yield a slide. Wall after wall passing as I whirl. Easy to lift my red summer skirt for you, easy to feel beautiful, tan thighs a trophy to bestow. Skirt bunched in fingers, easy to tease up inch by inch, up and even higher, the only step left raising the soft fabric over my head. Easy to drop the rippled fabric like something molten at my ankles, leaving me wilder. Unfinished. Lace panties remain. Sheer blouse clinging to shoulders. Lace bra cupping breasts. My dance spinning forward. You shift, closing in. Whisking my white blouse high and off. Chests almost flesh to flesh, small bits of light cloth still playing coy. Our arms touching high, flexing, and high. I catch the scent of you. You moving easily with me. Circling. Mouths open to each other. Breathing for each other. Your last bit of clothing, my last bit of clothing--undone. Gone. Still in circles, spinning until we drop to the floor. You grabbing my skirt; a pillow for my head. Me, wet, lifting open for you. Your hard curve ready to slide in and deep. And deep. Still a dance. Easy to learn this newly joined pace and tempo. Fused, plunging, pushing, dancing. The fog at the window now a heavy drape. Our bodies, our throats, music enough. Music enough.