Hic-up

Techno non-stop. Trance in beat step hic-up step. This
music is the emotional flow I haven't experienced. Just a simple
synthesized hic-up step. Artificial sound moving something visceral
inside. She likes synthesized clubbing. Likes it for the men and the
drinks and the lights and the drugs and the human waves of everything
you can't get in a library.


I like watching her from up top. The watchers lounge looking
down the dance floor. Buy a drink. Buy for a stranger. She's in the
red, moving hips like engine cylinders. I can see the oil run lightly,
seeping up from her brows, lip skin. Guys come and wave this or that
and she takes what they got and consumes. A leg here, twist and curl
around it. Mold herself to some male ligament. Flexible and flowing.
All flavor. Pulling her skirt up another inch, revealing the brown
skin, the wet skin, the very fuckable skin.


"Baby, you look killable tonight. Red is what the club boys
are drinking tonight babe."


She's really moving now. Got tight leather man pants kissing
every inch of that red skirt. I swish the last drink and slip out at
11:00. Taxi myself over to the library. One hour to close. Take the
stairs up two flights. Step, step, row, shelf, row. Reshelf cart to the
side. Foreign literature section comes up- Tolstoy, Pushkin stacked
breezing by. Come right behind my library secret and grab both her
thighs. She jumps. My hands won't let her turn around. I inhale hair.
She can't see me. I suck in neck. I love her accent. The only sylables
I hear are the ones she can't say right. Polish native beauty. She
tries to turn again. "Rob? you came?"


Pulling up that faded denim skirt. One palm full at a time.
She leans her head back. I suck in collar bone. Suck in soft top
breast. Her hands caress my hair. Run it through. My palms near her
hem. Keep palming denim till I strike her bareness.


Bend her down and go in. She's grabbing at Akhmatova,
Dostoyevsky. I'm seeing titles next to my face. I love her accent.
Solzhenitsyn, Nabokov, Chekhov mixing to the sounds of sweet curses,
whipped and stained by Polish tongue. The moans almost better than the
sex- deep European releases.


Laying on the floor. Lights out. Books fallen, scattered.
Minutes pass. Sweat dries.


Buckles and buttons buttoned and buckled. Down two flights of
stairs. Taxi to club. Weave through dance floor. Find that Red in a
heat of male. She's mine. Grab arms and lift. Slide her skin through my
palms. Attach pelvis to hers. Make her saran-skin-wrap me. She brings
teeth to ear and nibbles like bumblebee. I nibble back, up the lobe and
down. Whisper, licking and tasting, "I love you."