CHAPTER THREE
Don't hang up your dancin' shoes...
As I heard the words leave my lips
I was astonished at the triteness of the question..
what had happened to
who shot jfk,
was Hitler still really alive,
is manson demented or politically persecuted
what was the smile on the mona lisa really for
at what point did nancy regan quit fucking sinatra
how was the universe created
or even
is ellen really gay, or just trying to shore up the ratings??
She smiled at me,
and patted my arm...
"I don't normally do parlor tricks...
no water to wine, or loaves and fishes stuff from me, dearie...
but if that's all you want to know...
it's about Joni Mitchell."
In the same instant that the stupid song suddenly made a lot more sense,
I realised that I had long ago
replaced my fingers in my bowling ball,
and was slipping them in and out,
in that old familiar rhythm.
The physical contact,
that slight brush of her fingers against my skin,
was electrifying,
and grew more so
as her nails traced widening ovals along my upper arm...
I made no move to stop her
when the back of her hand followed the outer slope of my breast.
I couldn't take my eyes from the impishness of her face...
as it smiled into mine,
and held my gaze
while her fingers slid over the hills and valleys
of my ribs
under the tight bodice of the otherwise loose dress.
I noticed,
almost peripherally
that the noises of the alley had stopped,
and all around me were people statues...
stiffened humans, frozen in midmovement.
Her other hand moved to my neck,
holding the small bones of my uppermost spine
in the folds of her knuckles,
and kneading them with that same motion
that some dexterous folk can use
to roll coins across their fingers.
My arm with the ball
slid to my side
and the great weight hung in the air
when she pulled my fingers from within it.
She casually moved it to one side,
three feet off the floor,
hovering mystically..
and she moved her smile forward
until it paused a fraction of a millimeter from my own parted lips.
I could smell roses on her breath,
fresh cut flowers in my flared nostrils
as she breathed intoxicatingly into my mouth.
I was enthralled and entranced..
transfixed within the ethereal sphere of her absolute control.
Her eyes searched mine,
questioning and comforting
as her fingers moved freely across my breasts,
there was nothing that I could do,
save to enjoy...
As I watched,
her light lemon summer shift slipped from her shoulders,
into a ruffled pool at her feet.
She had a flawless body...
sheathed in matching lemon silk,
tender lace trimmed brassiere
and whispy translucent panties.
and she rose up in the air,
until her musk paused before my lips...
through the silk bottoms
her dainty finger drew a deep, damp groove
and the scent of a perfect woman
filled my being...
There was no sense of hurry to her,
no impatient lust..
I could see the soft curls through the gossamer silk,
could see where the skin rolled clean apart...
in invitation.
Her legs,
in mid air,
spread wide apart...
and she dragged her fingertip along her seam once again...
opening wider.
It was a simple unspoken request.
I felt my tongue dart from my mouth,
and almost touch her,
almost ,
but just enough to fill the taste buds.
I closed my eyes.
And when I opened them,
a second later,
she was gone.
But then again,
so was I.
