(for Me’shell)
by
M. Zora

Yes, I’m grown and I’ve got good sense. But sometimes a woman can abandon concerns of propriety and admit things which seem untoward. And in truth, I am a fan.

From the moment she enters the stage, the triangle within my jeans is wet, beating with a pulse so like the bass of her guitar. And I feel as her fingers pluck the strings, that I am being manipulated, handled by her small, dark and strong hands.

Little of her flesh is exposed, but so much of her soul is bared for the consumption of this audience, some fans like me, others surprised to find themselves so ensnared by the eroticism of her presence. And I drink her in, breath her in.

Finding myself suspended on the word web she spins, I am drawn nearer to the stage, Like a child witnessing a baptism, I imagine my nostrils filling with the scent of her. And she is being raised from the water, the fabric of her shirt turns to gauze as the sweat of the set beads on her torso, delivered. Sweet to think of it trickling down into the belted pants, sweet to imagine a taste, tongued from smooth skin.

My womb twists within me as she plays . . . fucked, I feel fucked as surely as if her small fist were clenched within me, stretching me, filling and feeling me.

What does it mean that I so long to be played, so long to be learned, tended to, used for her expression, her pleasure – to be her creative tool, to know and be known – contact with her body to match the intimacy I share with her mind?

Before I am aware of it, my lust and the weed has carried me to the lip of the stage, and when she reaches out to feel the crowd, I am there to take her hand. And I leave the moment, the space pregnant, filled with a seed planted by her beauty and strength.

The End

Copyright © 2002. Used by permission of author. All Rights Reserved.



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