Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Blue Note and Neon

First, the reflection of light; splashes of lolly pink and cobalt and blinding white, neon on darkened glass, on mirrored artificial spaces locked up and abandoned for the night. Then, footsteps; my own and those of others, the clack of heels on concrete and blacktop, suited men and women, bodies separately together, the weekday crowd heaving, weaving its way to home and solace, places near and afar, the honk of horns impatient and angry, the wind whipping, chilling, the glowing crowns of taxi cabs speeding down the hill, away from the gardens and the park, towards bridges over water, towards the inky black harbour and its maze of side streets and alleys, towards the sandstone structures with their stories of love and lust and heartache to tell.

And through it all, there’s a man on the corner, a metal piece pressed to his lips. And through it all, there’s a man on the corner, his fingers woven around gleaming brass. And through it all, there’s a man on the corner, his blue note slicing the clamour, the commotion, his blue note arresting my feet and my gaze, my attention, winding its way through my body, coursing, surging, etching itself into this shivering flesh, this blue note inspiring the ache, rousing the longing, the yearning, the vision of his hands upon me, his hands tracing these contours and curves, his mouth silencing my whispers, these words, his sensual kiss drowning, killing me softly, his rough kiss bringing me back to this cold, hard life, his body teasing me, mocking me, his hips grinding, taunting me with the flesh most desired, with the cock thick, hard and glistening, with the cock unlike any other within memory, his cock sliding through the slickness of my folds, his head circling, flickering my plump and throbbing clitoris, his cockhead nudging at the portal, at the point of delicious resistance, filling me with the taste that sets me moaning, with the taste that has me begging, with the taste of flesh, with the kiss of skin, with the second, the instant, the moment where he can truly take me, where his eyes can sink into me, where his sexual soul can see clear, can know me, where his hands can possess this softness, where his shaft can plunge to the sodden limit, to the clutching hilt, where he can fuck me with deep, seductive perfection, where his man can be at one with my woman, where our fucking, our love making, our union leaves us alive, addicted and breathless, shattering time and space, renewing the passion that flows without effort between us, the passion that runs through our lifeblood, through our days and our nights and each season that passes, the passion now called by that blue note, by this lone note suspending our desire in the ether.

6 comments:

OsShirt said...

The musician in me knows you wrote this with me in mind. ;-)

Jack and Jill said...

Despite the length, you manage to imbue this with a palpable urgency, likely due to the fact that the second paragraph includes one enormous sentence. The intensity is remarkable, and finds us tangibly aroused.

Cheeky Minx said...

Os: But, of course. Your trumpet skills that night were sublime and impressive, much like your ability to break the time-space barrier... ;-)

Jack and Jill: It's a rather favoured technique of mine, as you've guessed. I find it allows that intensity and arousal to reach a delicious peak.

Speaking of intense peaks, it's a shame you both aren't a little closer...

the late phoenix said...

music is my life...just sayin' ;)

blogoratti said...

Deep and dope too.

Cheeky Minx said...

the late phoenix: It's mine too. Let's get playin'...

blogoratti: You've made my night. Thank you...