- Post By: Jason Santo
- Date:
- Category: Uncategorized
In hand, a throat, the grip loose but enough to squeeze the stress of yearning and the flex of lust. In hand, hair, tangled through fingers and matted with the sweat of night and their effort. In hand, a breast, center raised to hardness and expecting tongue. In hand, the wet, soft fabric smoothed by greedy touch and aching hunger to be filled, dominated, caving in under the crushing ardor of the moment. And were they crazy? Yes. They’d lost themselves in the humid breath of now, and everywhere was their bed, and nowhere was their patience. The back of here, this rusted, filthy trap of refuse that hid in jagged shadows framed by crooked alley walls, orange streetlights slatted by fire escapes and the mists of the dying summer; it was where they succumbed. So much need and freedom, an intoxicating wave of delirium and unstoppable desire, like the tides, the moon overhead pulling them apart and pushing them together, their union guided by lunar will. In hand, hips, hardness drawn long into mouth. In hand, the shoulder, as lips trace stubble lining the jaw with a slight burn. In hand, a face, thumb pressed into mouth and tongue surrounding it. In hand, him, guided into her, the release of their expectation and their stifled cries as the wave crashes inside them, together drowned in furious undoing. Drawn up, they painted the present with their yearning and left the fevered mark of their eagerness as psychic graffiti upon metal collecting waste. And in the after moments, they gathered themselves and looked back, grinning at their youth and knowing they’d thrown away nothing, but left behind a trace of passion. In hand, a hand, holding more than skin and bone, but trust. In hand, a back pocket, the roughness of denim and the curve of flesh and muscle underneath. In hand, a back, loose now under open palm, tension drained by answered craving. In hand, a heart, already welcome but now also sated by loss of control, demand, fearlessness and drive. (at In Hand)