Polliwogs

We were both vulnerable and we fucked out of love, rarely out of anger. Few times we did it because we were hungry and there was not enough food in the fridge. 
He came from work one night and, on his knees, he hugged my hips, incapable to embrace me completely. He cried because his father was dead and he was happy about it, and because remorse was killing him. He had never experienced love from his father, and now without him he felt relieved and yet trapped. He cried and drank, and he spent the rest of the night lying his head on top of my breasts, my hands tangled in his hair that was of the color of dry hay. 

My perfume was almost gone by the time I arrived at his house. It was an early summer night, humid, steaming hot, and even though his house was 8 minutes from mine, I was already sweating. 

I was going to meet him. We met months before but not in that way, not in the intimacy of his home, walls surrounding us; his temple. I was ready. Open and porous to learn his moves, how he organized the dinner table, whether he uses sleepers or walks barefoot, the music he chooses, wine or beer. 

He opened the door, all black from shirt to faded jeans, his auburn hair falling where it pleased, always in the right places allowing him to tame it from time to time, putting his fingers into it and locating it, tucked behind his ears that were bigger than I thought, prettier too. 

Food was made and displayed in a Greek manner that reminded me of the fake opulence you can see in B movies about ancient times. I hoped his was a double feature. I couldn’t get enough of him. He ate in a way, with such passion, that I ended up being jealous of the fried squid and the olives. When we kissed for the first time, his saliva tasted like Kefalotyri cheese and grapes. He was rough with me because I asked him to, placing his hands around my neck, his blue veins getting swollen. He didn’t give me time to catch my breath, savoring the sound of my gasp. He looked older, wild, almost in dispare. I whispered in his ear: hold on. I’m going to live at least twenty years past you. But it’s okay. 

He smiled and groaned. His wrinkles covered the sides of his eyes. He couldn’t be quiet so I muffled his sounds with my lips. 

I felt him burying himself deep and inundating my fertil cunt until he was too soft to continue. We stumbled and found the bed where we stood for a while, our bodies still moving like two fished trouts left in a puddle. We were not lucid but we looked at each other and he hugged me and told me he was not done with me. Not yet. 

In the morning he made the best breakfast I had ever tasted and we fucked. My legs were trembling and I almost fell in the shower. We took our dogs for a walk, he put them on the leash much like a father helps his kids putting their coats on. 
Tonight I’m going to show you how to catch polliwogs. He said. And caressed my upper lip with such a firmness I had to close my eyes. I was again wet by the time we left his house. 
We sat by the pond and let the mosquitoes bite us through our sweated clothes. He touched my breasts and smiled, relieved to find them handy and big. He needed them like cold water in the desert. I gave him head. My lips remained rounded and numb, still wet from his fluids. The frogs were performing a sad symphony around us and there was nobody in the world that night except us. 

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He doesn’t think the way I do

When I looked at this hands, this morning in the kitchen table, holding the cup of coffee, placing it near his lips with fear, burning his mouth a little, two lumps of sugar, so dexterous with the butter. I thought: those hands. Those fingers have been inside me. They have been covered in his saliva, my fluids. He had hurt me with them. He had indulged me with them. With his hands he had claimed my body, pressing my nipples, slapping my legs. Spitting in my mouth only to later touch my lips with the same fingers he was then using for peeling a banana, so gently, he sliced it and put it inside of his warm almond milk bowl. Without even thinking. 

I went to the movies


A young man enters alone. He sits in front of me – in the very front down by the screen in the area where nobody sits unless it is opening night of a blockbuster summer extravaganza.He is alone, and noticeably so. His hair has waves in it and he is thin.  What is his story?I think he is a covert operative. Why would this boy come to see A Streetcar Named Desire all alone and sit in the front row? He had a small bag of popcorn with him.  Perhaps he was there to tape a brief encoded message to the bottom of his seat for another agent to find. Or perhaps he is secretly in love with the young Marlon Brando and his friends must never know.  What a tragedy it must be for him, so entranced by a man who was his age in 1951.  He stares up at the silvered image that towers two metres in front of him and shoots for the sky.

I was alone too. But my bag of popcorn was huge. It filled my emptiness.