That Time We Danced. You and I.

cropped-img_1119.jpgWhen I was 14 and you 15 with a porcelain face and chiseled down features too fine to be confined to our upstate town.

And your tiny mouth permanently lemon puckered and stained dirt pink.

And you stopped by to see me because I skipped school. And quit church. And skipped some more school. And you missed laughing and you missed chatting and you missed my goofy.

You and Max started dating. And Max and I had started to drift. But Max and I had been friends since way before we had hair down there.

And the drift happens to everything. But this drift also happened. Because now he had you.

And you. Were the thing. That taught us both. To want a thing.


I was a teenager in bed in the afternoon because I was complicated.

And depressed. And lazy. And mentally ill. And also very lazy.

With a giggle at my door you shattered into fragments and pierced the threshold. You were a conglomerate of flocks and schools. Leisurely dallying. Above the chaos of the bedroom floor.

When your ivory thighs landed. I had no idea. But also somehow absolutely knew. Your sugar smile was not the face of your intentions.

But, also, I’m not sure. You (inquisitive, untouched). Actually knew. That all which separated our most sensitive of skin.

Was a shall we say – haggard and nearly disassembled – set of knickers. And a faded bed sheet. Worn beyond the thinness of thread. (Both veterans of the great Childhood War.)

May as well have been a single sheet of cellophane.

May as well have been a forgotten thought. May as well have been a windward dance of the sun.


The space between us was quickly filled by a more granite composition.

You said nothing. You rose slightly as though a hesitant zeppelin. Shifted your weight to settle more comfortably. And returned to my hardness as a ballerina’s feet to the floor.

You asked. If I had ever kissed anyone.

I said no. Because I wasn’t sure if almost teenagers throwing their faces at each other in the dark. Counted.

Also. All of my thoughts. Were swirling around the empty head of my inflated cock. Which felt like fallen timber. Upon which you spread your quilt to picnic.

And the rest of me was focused on the warmth from some far off place between your thighs. Now crashing to the plains.


You kissed me. And I was a teetering boulder trying not to fall on a small bird.

You said. You should try to move a little.

And we kissed again. And my mouth somehow recalled all the past lifetimes of lovers. And my lips rolled easily around the bend and curve of yours. As though I had a map of the land.

And it was one of those moments. Whether because of the direction of wind. Or the tilt of the spin. Or the way you fall.

Where you get to be perfect in a way.

When our lips left each other. You laughed. You liar. You said. You’ve done that before.


So then later.

At the dermatologist’s son’s house.

Where the weekend world was the infinite carnival. For select members. Of the hip doctors in town.

And just a floor below them, for their children, was international waters. Furnished with a vast stockpile of buttery merlot. And top notch dope, stolen from the dermatologist’s personal reserve.

The proper supply. For courage. For nude group hot tubs.

With all the hip doctors’ sons. And sometimes daughters. And their girlfriends. And sometimes boyfriends.

And all their exchange students.

And a single leftover friend from grade-school. Who was the son of a dead man who was not a doctor.


I wasn’t the best bohemian.

My body was ravaged by the hormones of youth. Parts of my skin always awash in a painful plague. As though each night I was dipped in pestilent pools.

The craters and explosions did not feel like a foreign occupation. They felt like the language of my darkness. They were my sins.

Best to be buried under the buried. Best to be crashed on the dark half of the moon.

The only parcel of flesh immune. Was my roseate colored member. Sewn of silk and leather. That the farmers had fattened. For some future feast.

My fragile ego. Floated on that isle of dingus.

Accordingly, I always approached my nudity in a forward fashion.


I sat across from you and the Venezuelan reina. With her ample blessings. And fire in all her ways.

She was the gynecologist’s exchange student. And she was something the boys had never seen.

Their crotches popped off 21 gun salutes. When she sauntered from scene to scene.

And when she pursed a sup of shimmer, from a hallway fountain stream.

She would simultaneously lay un besito. On the fattened tips. Of all the phalluses, ever to have passed. This way or that.

You sat next to her as though carved in snow. Your pale glow. Your dense nipples wavering between the threshold of exposed and under.

Your petite breasts bold as low moons. Holding that grey space, where the light entangled water. With an owl’s quiet fury.


Around you. In the tub. All the boys flopping their dangles.

The handsome dermatologist’s son with his short fat member.

Big Fucking D singing theme songs while making his breach like a whale.

Max and his every-man’s dick as though they were running for Congress.

I sat watching all. Faithful to a defensive position.


And then.

A moment when all the flutter uncluttered. And the mists dissipating over the seas. And everyone carried by the tide to the next distraction.

And somehow we were alone.

Droplets down the tender slope of your shoulders. Droplets pooled on the hang of your lip. That broke and fell. Tracing the exact lines of your form.

Your small breasts broke the waters. Your dark nipples. Immovable mountains of coal.

They held some gravitational tether to the tip of my member. It stood and strained to reach you.


And I also stood.  To leave.  Because I realized I didn’t want to leave.

And I should have wanted to leave. Because you were a friend’s first attempt at love. And even in the idiocy of youth, I knew that was a precious, impossible endeavor.

But I didn’t turn away from you. Because the side of me I was really ashamed of. Was away from you.

So when I launched to take the two steps to the exit. I paused.

And found your eyes in an open study of my swollen. Holding. In a heavy slow sway over the frothing water.

And the pink from your lips had drifted to your cheeks. Your porcelain baking behind an oven window.

And when your eyes returned to mine. You had a look. That held the promise of a goldmine.

Of a single garden with all of the glide and shine. A rose lush bounty. That I now know. For the rest of my time.

I will give all to find.