A is for Ass

C is for Camels

N and I were on a walk. We walked around the city, past the school where I lost so much of myself, the overpass, the new loft developments and the empty buildings that hint at what Detroit was once. We talked about JY, beauty and weight. Weight. Weight, waist, wait, waste. I've finally found some control over food. Amazingly, it has been so freeing - not so much of a noose around my neck, as a feather tap on my shoulder.

N mentioned she had a friend that I might like. She gave him my number and he called. I was caught off guard, but he's funny and smart. A writer. And a chain smoker without a car because of something to do with too many tickets. Oh well. I'm not looking for perfect, just fun. He was hot - in that tall, lanky, sexy way. Hazel eyes and big hands. We sat in his living room, drank wine and ate cheese and olives. It was kind of like show and tell. He would bring out a book he published and tell me a story. I would read, and he would look at me. I would tell a story. We would change the music. Eventually he sat next to me and started to touch me. But, he had to finish his cigarette before he kissed me; it was the slowest smoke. (And I'm having that moment as a writer where I realize I could describe that smoke in a long rambling sentence full of descriptive adjectives, but I won't) He said a had beautiful lips and breasts. We moved to his bed, where when he saw my underwear he said it was fucking beautiful. Fucking beautiful.

But frankly, I was bored. I didn't want to have sex. I didn't want release. I want tension. That moment before a kiss that lasts for days.

He didn't want me to leave, but I insisted. I drove home with Charlie Parker and the slow melody of a sax in the night. The moon was the most beautiful I'd seen in a long time. Somehow, it was all better by myself.

posted by CV @ 6:25 AM