We're at the stage, in bed of course, where it's safe to speak of past beds. Safe because in this present bed, we know all. We have heard the whisper, fallen the sublime fall.
We know all.
There is nowhere unstroked, unmoaned, unmasked, uncaressed. We fit. We click. Beyond beyond.
No safer place than this to let him tell me of the women who have desired him.
Until the steam ran out.
No safer place than now.
Given, the steam ran out.
"I used to do life modelling.
He's on his back, looking down and over at me in the crook of his arm. Telling me, turning himself on like a pole dancer. It's endearing.
I know, by the too casual delivery, that this is a tale he's told before. To appear the free spirit.
The biggest turn on.
Intrigue and surprise.
I wonder what other secrets this dark horse holds.
Knowing his likes, I only wonder for a second, was it her idea. Of course it was.
The photographer. From the 80's. Time of 'Unbearable Lightness of Being'. Was she fresh from seeing that I wonder? This photographer. When she said,
"Take off all your clothes.
It doesn't cross my mind to ask if it was foreplay. Or after play. Ghosts of lovers past. I am the now. What do I care? It fizzled out.
Like a phosphorous flash.
Quite famous by his account. This photographer. She photographed his arse.
"I was in the Guardian, nodding, "Just a shot of my arse.
I kiss him laughing, rolling him over, he lets me push him, wants it, loves the pushing, zero resistance. It's how I know it was her idea.
I also know, that fire in his eyes as I make my first push, was the same fire she saw.
"Let me kiss your famous arse.
He lets me. Of course. We giggle, that silent smiling giggle only lovers do. Acquiescence. Release. Aces played. The bank is won.
I spread his legs, sit tall between them, better to observe this famous arse. I wend my hand along its curves, like a Sunday stroll. Slight and light, fingers tantalising tops of thighs, between the cheeks soft feather strokes. Zeus, come as a swan. Would tickle.
The sensitivity of men strikes me. In this famous arse. I see it all. Vulnerability. Longing to be safe enough to say and still be loved. Still be touched. Like this, most masculine fragility spread before me, quivers. Precious breath of this delicious man turns short and hoarse. His yes.
I am fascinated by these perfect orbs.
Basin the back of my hand in the hollow of the thigh socket, sweep the smooth slope up to the waist, then down parting the damp dark soft manliness of it, I lick.
Intrigue and surprise.
I see it.
Snapshot before my eyes, and I know the power she felt, snapping this famous arse.
The layout, the newsprint, on the floor of my room. First seeing of it, the shape of it. Unchanged.
Cut out and stuck on my bedsit wall.
Could it be?
Of course it could.
Life's like that.
When you cut out and keep
A famous arse.