Friday, August 08, 2008

Microfiction: Dirty toes and kitchen floors

She hit him like a force of nature, a hungry hippie goddess with mother
hips, waist length waves of dark hair and a face that flashed between
hungry and oddly sweet.
She'd showed up at his door, having met him the week before in a corner bar at a gig he'd been playing.
She'd caught his eye there, and her sensuality
and free spirted mojo sucked him right into her orbit.
She laid out the raw facts, her need and her desire, and took him right on
the spot. Within moments, clothes were flying, hands were groping, and they were naked on the kitchen floor, rolling about like dogs in heat. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was amused by the scent of bleach and soap coming up from the floor tiles, thinking it was better to roll around like this on something that didn't smell like spilled beer, like it had that morning.
He dragged her into the bedroom after his bony knees got rubbed raw on the kitchen floor. She didn't need much dragging, either.
The piled onto his bed, a jumble of arms and legs and kisses and urgent
needs. She climbed on top of him and did her best meat grinder imitation,
her long hair tickling his nipples, the tops of her dirty toes curling into
the bed so hard they started to get cramps in them.
He wasn't sure what to do with how he felt about this whole animal act of
lust. Her funky hippie earth mother look and wild abandon were damn
attractive, but a bit unerving to a man who had grown up in a small town,
and had been put through the Jesus wringer at an early age, loading shit
into his mind he still couldn't figure out how to totally scrub out. He's
sure poured enough bleach on that part of his head to get rid of it.
Like most animal passions, it was over fairly quick. They both laid back in
the bed and wondered just what the hell happened. He did anyway, but he
suspected that her attitude was less wound up about sex, since the whole
episode was her idea.
How, he wondered, was this going to work itself out? Once finished, the
reality of how complicated this whole thing was going to get scared him....

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"Sometimes a scream is better than a thesis." Ralph Waldo Emerson