the dressing fetish

safe to say he liked to watch her get dressed---

for that matter, looking back,

it was safe to say that he always enjoyed

watching,

as the beauty of the time in question,

would easy up her jeans, her pants,

over her hips,

snug as that of a newly made bed,

firm as one a military wo/man could flip a

quarter off &

the unexplainable want to watch again,

which sparked during the very present

watching---

how her hair would cascade and move

like the waves washing up to the shore,

when she’d wrap round the bra

with the back of her neck popping out

beneath those elegant waves

here & there,

as she moved

to hook it.

 

while most men & women no doubt

love to see the clothes come off,

as it inevitably means that pleasure is in the

near future,

he felt something completely different when

she began to get dressed---

more than mere arousal,

even more so when he was already spent,

he thought of the decadent paintings that

would show a woman with her nude back

revealing what then must have been a

ridiculous religious uproar---

now, in the oversexed, desensitized

america, he found a special sensuality in

the slow movements of a newly comfortable

intimacy---

almost as if he wasn’t in the room,

she would go about her routine,

moving then from throwing the shirt over head

head,

to the closeness in the mirror,

when she’d focus on getting her hair

just right.

 

all this to make herself presentable,

to emphasize that style, that sexy exterior

which attracted her to him in the

first place &

as the gentle spurts of perfume follow,

targeting those crucial points where primal

energy & heat

flows,

he rolls his fingers up into his hands

gripping for dear life,

because he wants to tear the whole majestic tapestry off again,

in order to

devour

devour

devour.