Posted: March 15, 2009 in Uncategorized

It’s weird to follow those poems up with a fantasy; but it needs somewhere to breathe.

My conceptions of sexual desire are incomplete. I don’t know if it’s fear, shame, disbelief, or disgust; but I always imagine sexual situations and scenarios to a certain point before the thoughts disintegrate. A steamy situation hits a wall and it collapses instead of breaks through. Like love. Like life. It hits the wall but very little breaks through.

So here goes. It’s only a couple of years later, and I’m with you. You haven’t changed; your smile is still bright and beautiful and wide. And you’re still enthralled with basketball. I’ve decided to throw you a party while you and a few of your friends watch the game.

Because it’s for you, I pull out all the stops. Mini-deli sandwiches of different varieties. Homemade chili for the hot dogs, the hamburgers, the nachos. A fridge full of alcohol, soda, water, and freezer’s ready with ice and ice cream. A newly baked cake, though I don’t know the flavor — I only know there’s cream cheese frosting on it. It’s very plain but tastefully frosted. Chili’s warming on the burner. I bring in food by request, tray by tray. But unlike the sitcoms, you notice it. You smile every time I do, and you miss glimpses, seconds of the game as you smile. And I keep moving.

Sometimes, you pull me down gently next to you and you whisper in my ear what’s going on in the game. It’s garbled, gibberish to me but I smile and occasionally cheer when the team scores. The guys start to laugh when my cheers become indiscriminate — not for any particular team, just celebrating a nice play. Essentialism is an art, not happenstance. I smile and move back to my preparations, my food.

I sip a beer and smile. There’s something fitting in this dynamic for me, even though I don’t think people would understand. I’m comforted in preparing and organizing, in cooking and eating food, in helping people enjoy themselves. But I know from the outside looking in, I appear to be a housewife or a helpmate. And not a woman enjoying a hard day’s work, capping it off with a cold beer. Watching a man she likes, watching him have a good time. Watching him smile at her as her lips wrap around the bottle.

He appears to want something more than what’s in the room, something that I can’t serve on a tray. My eyes try to deliver it; but we need to close the distance. Slowly, aware of my body and its motions, I start to move. He licks his lips as I enter the room, his friends enjoying the last minute before halftime. His hands flexing before I kneel down and whisper in his ear, “Come upstairs.” His smile is terrible, devastating, real in its presence and happiness. We’re closing the gap, one bright emotion at a time.

He does not follow right away. The guys help themselves. But he’ll follow soon. I will have to wait a few minutes, many seconds. The wait will be painful but worth it.

And that’s where it stops. The waiting, the anticipation, the… what happens next? Is it what I imagine or is it something else? Dread blocks my dreams. I don’t know if I want to know.


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