Chapter 3: Javon 1
Doing, a filthy pleasure is, and short;
And done, we straight repent us of the sport.
— Gaius Petronius, Doing
I love the feeling of her shoulders, each curve, the solidness of bone under taut muscle, the warmth of her skin.
Working my thumbs bit by bit up her neck and feeling the tendons begin to lose their grip, their stress.
Up under her hair, that lovely hair. I love the smell of her hair. Coconuts, and – is that gardenia? Is there a hint of patchouli underlying it? The strands between my fingers, the thickness of it bunched in the crook of my hand, like a silken rope as I lift it up and let it fall. And the smell of her scalp through it all — the unique, her-only bouquet that would come through whether gardenia or rose, whether coconut or lime, whether patchouli or coriander. So intoxicating, so feminine, so … her.
Now down, my attention on the shine of the skin stretched over her scapulae, as I move it back and forth across those peaks. The tendons down her back, melting under my touch. The cables that become soft and sink into relaxation. I put my face for a moment to her hair, parting it with the tip of my nose, inhaling her.
I stroke down her sides, feeling each rib as my fingers bump gently across them. What heaven. And then into her waist, the curves divine and unexplainable. I reach around and under her belly just a little and her back responds in a small arch.
Oh, lord, the fine hills of her glutes, my thumbs just touching the dimples there. The tanned skin giving way to the sharp line of lighter brown where the slight modesty of her bikini bottom hides small parts of her from the sun.
Slowly down her left leg, the juncture where thigh meets glute – it’s otherworldly and indescribable. But I wait ... and continue down her toned calf, to put my attention on each of her toes.
She is shuddering just a little now.
Back up the right leg, as toned as the left, trying to still my body’s impatience.
Again, to the juncture between thigh and gluteus, and she spreads her legs just enough to allow me, or invite me, to bring my hand up further. Moisture is beginning to pop out on her skin. There’s a warm humidity in this hiding place at my fingertips.
Now I lean my body down to hers and the hairs on my chest barely touch her back to impart a sensation — a tickle? A shiver?
Not time yet: languidly she turns over, the curves flowing into new shapes as she raises her arms above her head, stretching this wonder with the grace of a cat.
What finer place of worship than a woman’s body. I gaze past the Mound of Venus across the plains to those twin temples, each with its shikhara that only God could create with his attention to human delight as my ministrations cause the lovely landscape of flesh to shudder and quake. The goddess in movement.
The goddess arises and pushes me back.
And now it’s my turn.
How could I not fall in love at this moment?
Her ministrations move me, physically, energetically, emotionally.
My turn to shiver and shake. My turn to stretch with the growing sensation. My turn to feel the blood rise. My skin’s turn for goosebumps and sweat. Now it’s time to open the lotus flower, to wander in the jade garden, to worship in the temple.
After a time, after certain lovely activity and ever-astounded release, I get up, move away, and leave her lying there asleep and satisfied, where I now see but a mound of warm eiderdown — the goddess hidden beneath.
As overwhelmingly lovely as this has been, I’m so thankful to the Maker that there are many such temples. So many goddesses worthy of worship. So much love to give.
Gratitude.
To the susurrus of soft snoring, I pull on my jeans, tee shirt, an old Navy pea coat and head out the door.
The pre-dawn fog lays heavy on the streets and everything is moist. The damp earth, just now releasing the heat and scent of the day, the slippery sidewalks, pungent rock roses mixing with the sycamores, the spicy but antiseptic eucalyptus (aromatherapy for free), the scent of the woman I have left behind travels with me.
Walking under the eucalyptus is like walking in the rain with so much dew collecting, pushing the long eucalyptus leaves down and depositing their load on my head and shoulders.
Ha! Why should they not have the release as I have just had?
Through the early diffuse streetlights of this college town a few walkers out and about from the previous night of revelry are my occasional companions, with hands deep in the pockets of their jackets or sweaters or hoodies, heading home just like me.
I pass the occasional lighted window of early risers and detect the scents of what they use to propel them into their day — the bitingly bright delicious aroma of coffee brewing, the calming hint of mint or chamomile, the thick sweet scent of Ganga being toked. Lord, that stuff would put me right back to sleep!
Speaking of which, I’ve come down from my high — not to “the little sadness” that they say the Roman spoke of (what was wrong with Petronius that sex brought him down?). No, I just haven’t had any sleep since yesterday and 5:30 in the morning is a time to notice.
I don’t have to be at work until 11, so plenty of time to get in a little nap. Maybe that weed’s not such a bad idea.
I quietly turn the lock of my duplex apartment, silently take off my shoes. Someone has kindly left a packed but only partially smoked little pipe on the top layer of the round antique cherrywood end table. The pipe is one of my favorite pieces of paraphernalia — brass with the red-painted ridges partially worn down by use, a lovely and much-loved little appliance. I flick the lighter sitting next to it, put little Betsy to my lips and gently suck on her nipple as I watch the flame bend down into the bowl to turn the leaves to cinders.
And then I slip down the hall, past my roommates, and into bed where I pull the waiting sheets up to my chin.
And it’s off to dreamland.