Loving Lex In the Aggregate

There is something delightfully askew in loving an opera singer near a deep-water channel, with a Soviet trawler slipping by, and the water from its wake sweetly slapping the rocks below.

You see, I want to love Lex in the aggregate. I’m a glad fool. Picnics in parks on prom nights, watching screwball comedies on Channel 40, wearing thin ties in mini-knots in a town where ties aren’t required. You know, stuff like that.

Understand, I’m not playing a rake or rogue here. I want to cool my hot feral brain with any variation of C.K. Dexter-Haven I can find.

The Great Lex is no different. She has Rene Russo locks, a visage like Deborah Kerr, chocolate brown eyes, and boop-boop-be-doop lips. She walks like an ugly duckling from a small town would. Outcast and uncertain about the attractiveness they’ve grown into, getting even, and parlaying that attraction into a future.

We’re desperate for sophistication. We want out. And our first chakras are on fire.

Did I tell you that Lex was a coloratura soprano?

It would seem that a date at the Sherwood Theatre would portend nothing. I mean, I take Lex to see “The Jungle Book”. We are 21-years-old. Now, the fact that we are tongue-fucking each other to near injury portends everything. Using our tongues in ways beyond their design show that Disney has no idea what their films inspire.

Desperate to experience every degree of each other’s being, we take the long slow drive on a levee road out past Ladd’s Marina. Out past the asparagus stalks planted in peat dirt fields. Out to the single road that line the banks of the Stockton Channel. Along the way, it feels that every inhale I take is an initiation. Every exhale, a death.

I park the Fiat facing east. Life has moved on from us asking any more questions of it. A Soviet trawler filled with Russian grain quietly slides in the direction of Stockton Harbor.

We get out of the car, walk to the trunk searching for the perfect flat space, and Lex, in an authoritative voice tells me “Turn around”

I face the west. 5. 10. 15 second’s pass. Why am I counting. I lose the more I try to keep time. Fading. Fading. Fading fast. I pulse everywhere, especially in the parts of me that are now profoundly reliable.

“Turn around”

I do. The Great Lex sits on the trunk. Her feet rests on the blue metal. Knees bent. Thighs apart. Skirt hiked to her hips. Lex is moonlight now and I am being bathed in the glow of her sweet gypsy snatch.

“I really like your tongue” she says.

Lex and I learned a lot last night. That there is honor in having knees bloodied by asphalt. That sex can be had in the presence of the Soviet Merchant Marine. We learned how to be humble, know our place in the universe, and still be bold enough to stiffen nipples, cock and clits. That, ultimately, sex and love require a linguistic base, even if it’s only two words and screamed to God, and finally, when it’s all over, there’s love in gently touching our randomly shaped scars.