I came to say goodbye. To break up with you. To stop seeing you. To become free.

As we talked, and I stutt-stutt-stuttered my way through the reasons why, I became more aware of your lips. I noticed your eyes, always, but I kept looking at your lips, and visions of you fucking me nibbled at my consciousness.

How could I ask for such a thing, for you to caress my body and penetrate me with ease and pleasure when I had just finished telling you I didn't want you any more? How unbelievably crass and perverted. But I did. I wanted you more now than ever. So somehow, I don't even know the exact words, I asked -

were you still available for booty calls?

Yes - you said yes. I could call. And we made love.

Of course it was the best.

You pull gently at panties, no part else left to pull at, and she says in that sweet sleepy silly accent of hers: 'no, no, pay attention up here a little longer...' And a few minutes pass where you do, and a few do where you don't; and then you're back down there... and if you had stopped to look she had rolled her eyes, but you hadn't and won't and whatever.

The night passes, as they do; and for all concerned it's sweet: it's sweat & sweet dreams, secrets kept a week and shared once no-one else cares. But it was you and her. And still, some night some nights later, half drunk and alone, half asleep but not, you think: where has all my patience gone?

You think of the first women you loved; you think of Paul Simon, of weeks spent barely kissing. Think of her, of one long clueless beautiful night, followed close behind by participant plans to do laundry at 10 that morning...

Sit wondering where the years went, & then sit more wondering why patience left with. Sit holding a beautiful woman, bare shoulders and all: sit stroking soft skin, tan fading slowly down shoulders from top brown to paler bottom; sit counting moles, tracing curves; sit still, a rare break, eyes following shadows. Sit, but only for a moment: and then you're down, down, down, show me the way to the next undergarment...

Sooner or later the only question worth asking is: why have you no appreciation left for the simpler beauties in life; for simple though they are -- though they contain no orgasm, fewer taboos, less fluids -- they are still beauties. Her whole body is gorgeous; she, as a complete entity, is, and yet any attempt to say so would seem trite...

Sooner or later the flesh is weary, weary through overabundance or lack thereof: and from weariness comes simple appreciation. Fondness not through boredom but exhaustion: exhaustion from searching or exhaustion from having, but exhaustion: and once the alternatives have been exhausted a single sweet kiss is worth a gallon of water or a week of breakfast in bed.

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