Last night, my ass pressed
against the sink, the dish drainer rattling behind me, my
teeth against your shoulders, your arm holding me up,
my skirt pushed up past my hip on one side, the fingers
of your other hand moved inside me in an elegant dance.
Like ballet underwater, the steps fanned out in all
directions: point up, reach deep, tug forward toward my
pubic bone, twist and turn, sweep to the side, knuckles
against my plushy wall, fingertips spooning me up, pull
down, as my knees buckle.
Every step a different texture
of pleasure: sweeping, piercing, whispering, gushing. My
left hip (the stronger one) hinged open, my foot braced on
the round pads of my toes. My body rose and fell with
the tides of the dance; sometimes I was on tiptoe, sometimes
sunk down, as into a curtsy, or fighting stance, balanced
around the pivot of your hand. My every shift, turn, twist,
twitch, tilt (oh, especially tilt), changed the tides, like
a kaleidoscope. I was drunk on feeling so much control,
so much pleasure. The world teetered, dimmed, then
brightened. My throat gasped, my back slid against the
counter, slippery, boneless.
Today there is a row of red
marks on your shoulder: the flaming imprints of my teeth.