LOVING HANDS
Everything painted one of those
scenes of moment. The heat of the day. The wine. The Gulf spread out before us
tranquil and sultry. We were as languid and limp as that Spanish Moss on those
ponderous oaks of that gorgeous estate. We walked along the shoreline. Soaked in
the blossoming of a stolen day on our expansive bay. The candle flames of
sailboats danced. Pleasure boats droned and darted about like persistent water
bugs. And - further out - sea barges plowed. Even the scale of the sky you found
to be wondrously open.
And you surprised me by grabbing my hand. You seized the
moment because you knew that I never would and it felt right and powerful and
tender and comfortable and loving. And I dared wonder, now that we were holding
hands, how you would be. And we? An Us? That wonderful hand. Reassuring hand.
Welcoming hand. Sensuous. Inviting. Lady, give me your hand, part of you, all of
you. Caress me you. Caress me, you. Explore me you. This way, you. You.
My hand coupled with yours, and I loved it voraciously,
hungrily climbing its lithe spine, languishing on your bony mound, plunging down
the side to its pristine valley and up again to a sister summit, rousing each
slumbering follicle, discovering the length of every tip and nook and cranny,
returning to the pliant underside and, finally, squeezing the ultimate comfort
and absolute invitation of your now open palm, exchanging and rubbing it with my
oils, drinking your moisture, coupling in our heat and bathing in the warmth of
the sun and the sting of the sweat and the grit as it rolled off my brow and
into my pleasure-burned eyes, here, on this Alabama summer afternoon with the
Point Clear breeze, our hands dancing slowly.
