A Closet Tryst

You speak different words of love in the darkness

A closet is an odd place for trysting. Well, you’ll soon change your mind if you’re taking a graduate program in psychology. Timothy Leary said it best: “If psychiatrists and neurologists have their way, there would be no such thing as love.”

I see Dame in class the first week. She grins with warm existence. We’re in a Behaviorist Theory class. B.F. Skinner would be pissed. The fact that she wears a simple white t-shirt, blue jeans and cream-colored Espadrilles shows that she has verve and dash. Old words come to attention around her. Framed by grey Angelica Huston length hair, her blue eyes sparkle with insouciance. She looks her age. That’s refreshing. Knowing that she knows her limits makes it even more so.

There were ten weeks in the quarter. Behaviorism is causing our spirit to bleed out of our bodies like a slit elk hanging from a Douglas Fir. Dame dares me, “Let’s dance with audacity.” By the third week, Dame is topless under her blouse, bottomless under her jeans, and I, bottomless under mine. We decide that week that we’ll call our spirit back. Week nine. In the closet next to class while on break. While we would be semi-blatant with our exhibitionism, we know the few who will walk by will be zombies ruminating about apostrophes, abnormal psych, and eight letter words.

By the fourth week, we knew the closet door is always unlocked. On the fifth week, Dame slips in and tests the acoustics. Turns out the closet is as quiet as a padded cell. On weeks 6, 7 and 8, we dream.

We dream of open candy shops filled with tootsie rolls, lollipop sticks, and sweet pink rose petals that dissolve on the tongue. We dream the affirmative anarchies of being, of being in the process of the sweet fuck, and of me becoming a woman as she becomes a man. We recite the lines that Whitman never wrote. I dream of figs having the faint taste of her pussy. She dreams of feeling with her tongue how my foreskin has the texture of silk sheets. And we whisper, whisper, whisper sweet sleeping words as we nibble, suck and blow into each other’s ear.

Piquant

Saucier

Frottage

Cassiopeia

Euripides

The day comes. We stand in the darkness. Her blouse drops like Salome’s seventh veil. The unknown strength in my body from lifting bales of hay on the farm snap my thighs to attention. Her ankles lock behind my back. Our arms lock behind each other’s neck. There’s pleasure in mounting and being mounted to face each other in the darkness.

Sucking, teething, licking, nibbling, penetrating, tonguing. We are robust in stopping the drop of guillotine blades all round the world. Then we cry, and then we cry, cry, cry and fuck for the pain of others, and then we cry with sometimes cry, and fuck more, tears of sorrow more often than not this to my darkness and this to hers. We cry, cry, cry for the shadows of our being.

We are done. The aroma of our funk fills the dark vertical space

My cum, her wetness, our brine.