Last Monday was my first pool day of the summer. It
was a glorious, shining day to read a mystery book on a blanket under the tall
trees, listening to the chatter of the families nearby, but the water was too
cold to go in. I went home for a nap but before I dozed off, emboldened and
about to be rested, I asked Le Monsieur if he wanted to come over that night
for a walk. Maybe we could hold hands in the beautiful mild first moments of
summer, beneath a waxing half-moon.
Le Monsieur came up my driveway more beautiful than
his picture: tall, angular, bespectacled. He was wearing a pretty orange-gold
woven print shirt and pants that matched. He looked cosmopolitan and assured,
if a little mystified to suddenly be here.
As we walked along my well-worn woodsy neighborhood route,
his first touch beyond handholding was to gently grab the back of my hair,
right there in front of the moon and everybody. When we sat down in my favorite
little park to chat, he delicately took off my shoe and rubbed my foot. I was
glad I’d done a pink and gold pedicure the day before.
When I brought him home and to bed, he taught me the
word chateullement,tickle. He thrust his dick into my mouth and his hand
deep inside me, my legs up the wall. Beneath him, sucking him happily and
deeply, I felt an oasis of unselfconsciousness, just me and the beautiful dick
and the smell of summer and sandalwood and subtle cologne. He came easily for
me, saltier than the sea.
Since then, I’ve put Duolingo back on my phone, re-taking-up
not just French but Spanish too. I’ve even started learning the Hebrew letters
just for fun. Oh, the languages, les langues, the tongues. I’m picturing
Elizabeth Gilbert practicing Italian in the tub at the beginning of Eat Pray
Love and hoping for a summer of pleasure, one way or the other. All the
ways.
