Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica


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A Street’s Distance Away

She’d run the fingers of her right hand slowly down the window staring in his direction. She wanted to reach across the distance between their buildings to nurture him. She had never seen him looked so lonely, so overwhelmingly torn by the departure of a woman. For the past few years she had watched him from the safe distance of her bedroom window as he built a life with another woman. She had become emotionally attached to who she thought him to be, he who she had built in her dreams to be. He seemed not the typical guy. Especially so, in bed, where she watched them copulate time and again.

Those rainy days that he and his mate spent in bed switching from making love to ravages of the flesh, she stared at them in deep sighs of the soul. Tapping her bedroom window with her index finger saying to herself, “you are mine, and don’t even know it. But, why it hurts such that I’ve been here for so long and you haven’t even noticed my presence.”

Even the days when his floor-to-ceiling windows were opened wide and his mate accentuated pleasures of the self out to the world, he didn’t notice her watching them, watching him… even when staring dead straight in her direction. Sometimes she swore to have had a connection with him; to have caught a glimpse of interlocking eyesight. It wasn’t to be. He had little idea there was a world out there other than that with his mate.

These past few months however, he’s mopped around covered in obvious pain. He’s hurt more than at any other time since she began her distant intrusion of his life. Even the words she sent in his direction while leaning her forehead against the window didn’t reach him. Not one made it across the four lane street distance between her and his room. The wind blowing eastward deprived her consoling words from making it across the street. Her intentions washed away to nothing… diluted by the strength of the wind and opaqued by the noise of the city.

He sat awake each night until the early hours of the morning — just before the sun peaked out at the world — when it became time to walk his Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy. He would stand up, open the window, look east, west, but never north, he never looked north in her direction. He simply looked to the left, to the right and straight down as if hoping to see the figure of that woman entering his life again. From the distance, she resented that woman’s departure. She didn’t think it fair that he had to sit and agonize while his ex likely gallivanted the nights away.

One night, he had a terrifyingly difficult time finding peace. The usual spot that had provided him continuous soothing at the edge of his bed failed time and again to help him forget. He walked about the apartment fully clothed as if begging for the acceleration of time until time came to go for a walk. Unable to await the arrival of the sun, he grabbed the leash, the puppy and headed towards the front door. Upon opening the door, a note rested inside an envelope with a lili resting atop it.

His hopes flickered with excitement. For the time it took to smell the flower and open the note, his heart attacked him as if loved had struck his fancy. It wasn’t to be the case, the note read “If anything, I can make you forget. Look out your bedroom window. Not east, not west, not down, but straight ahead.” He was unmoved by the note. He closed the door behind him and walked towards the elevator. He pressed the down button but instead of releasing it, he kept it pressed looking down at the note and flower on his left hand. The elevator reached his floor, opened but, he didn’t go inside. He walked back to his apartment with a quicker glide than he used to get to the elevator. He opened his apartment door, unleashed little Ridge and walked straight to the his bedroom window.

Directly across from his window, on the very same floor in the facing building stood she. She wore a white silk robe down to mid thighs, opened straight down the middle fully exposing her. The burgundy belt hanging from her right shoulder. The slight drizzles did nothing to prevent the silence between them to hush. She looked at him with a warm smile. He at her as if he’d forgotten that not long ago he suffered mercifully. He slowly opened his window and stepped out to the ledge. She didn’t have the same luxury of meeting him at the ledge of her very own window. She could only watch him from behind her locked glass.

He looked at her for near eternity, so it seemed at least; fixated on the embrace of her smile. Even the beauty of her bare chest, stomach and femininity remained ignored. He simply looked at her smile, looked at her eyes, admire her hair curling down to the sides. She was audacious by removing the robe, letting it fall down to the floor informing him that she was his.

He looked up to the sky that had strengthened to a pour. Water running down his face, embracing the he meant to be embraced by her across the street. He removed all of his articles of clothing one by one, tossing them down to whatever whim the wind wished to cause upon them. She laughed, she got close to the window placing both her hands against the glass and driving them down as if touching his chest.

He too, laughed. He screamed out in her direction, elated in the finding, naked on a ledge. Then he stopped, smiled and simply stared at her. Rain covered him drop by drop, soaking his body with the very warmth he had forgotten existed.

She smiled, and with her finger drew a heart out of the condensation building against the window. He hadn’t a reaction. He simply watched… feeling the end of agony come to be.


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In the Outback

Kangaroos Silhouette Against The Setting SunI’m as much of an outsider to the populated metros as am to their remote and sparsely-inhabited inland. Yet, fate had it to see me become some sort of “tour guide”, an atypical one for the outback… too. The profession fell upon me through my father who moved he and I here when I was a teenager. He sought a world of peace far and away from the hustle and the bustle of consumerism and plutocracy. A self-made mountain-man back at the states, he lusted after the unknown of mother-nature. What better place to experience life than that where God only allows a few to survive: the land of the Kangaroos!

We spent months-on-end in the outback looking up at the stars during the night; gaining knowledge of the area and its people during the day. He built us a small scientific tour company to bring science out to the outback. It was our way of living, yet it took my happiness with it, too. I couldn’t accompany him in that last expedition from which he never returned. The last I heard of him was when he spoke to me through the screen door: “I’ll be back, son… no worries”, he said. The papers had it that a few of the members didn’t make it through the dry season but, I refused and still do, to believe that my dad was amongst the thirsty ones left behind.

The local media got a hold of my story and published it. It led to a major flood of thrill seekers at my doorsteps looking to go deep into the outback where other tourist guides refused to travel. They accompany me with the knowledge that I am not there for them nor their safety. There is always the possibility for one, or all of us not to return. I’ve spent most of the past 20 years looking from my father in the outback. I haven’t stumbled upon anything to build my hopes, still they are as high now as they were when I set out to find him.

Aboriginal OutpostBecause there isn’t a need for cash out here, I rarely ever charge more than food and spirits for my services. Tourists are dropped off for my pickup at random areas where I’m known to come collect water and materials throughout the year. It is also not guaranteed that I’ll make the drop-off times. If I’m not there in a three day window, I won’t be coming back for months; alternate spots must be sought by eager tourists. The few of us who live out here known where and when each of us loners is most likely to pop up.

I’ve become friends with many-a-criminals as I have kindhearts living and hiding out there. They have spared my life from nature more than once, too; which gives me hope that the same fate could have been experienced by my father. To the scattered englishmen in the outback I’m known as “the boy” because of the young age when I began my father’s search; the aborigines call me “unsettled spirit”. So called because of the pain I carry inside that keeps me pressing on and won’t let me die. They, the aborigines, are excellent companions in the dark of the night and the dry of the day. They taught me that while the outback is an unforgiving land, it has a way of selecting who will come out unharmed. No one enters here who can leave if nature selects them to stay behind… if fate cares not to spare their life. My dad could very well be one of selected ones but, that doesn’t mean his life could have been the price paid to stay.

Aboriginal WomanI have not picked up a tourist in my last three stops, a years worth of time I gather. My companion for the past few months, Kora, has rejected my taking on anyone, believing that the nocturnal spirit would have taken my life were I insolent enough to have brought them. The unlucky tourists have all been Americans. The greedy type, not the usual mellow fellows who find a breakage of an appendage time to smoke it up and drink. I’ve obeyed Kora each time. Being a foreigner to this land makes me listen to the people who’ve survived in it the longest. So, the soulless fellows have gone home after a few losing physical altercations with me. I suppose their money gives them the birthright to be disgraceful back at home, but here, in this land, I am the graceful one.

It’s the hottest period since anyone can remember. It’s been so hot that Kora believes we should create a new name for this type of heat. All I’ve heard in the week long journey to the only outpost within a reasonable trek is how the sun is not at all pleased. I am in an honest need for Kora to stop following me, or a few tourists to occupy Kora’s stories. She’s a kind one, but sometimes being alone in the outback for too long leaves one thirsty for verbiage. Oh, she’s at that point.

The night prior to reaching the outpost, Kora alerts me that this group of tourists, three in total, is welcomed in the outback. That I’ll be pleased of this group. I pay her little mind. I’m tired and would like a good night’s rest. She falls fast asleep quickly while I stay awake listening to the concoction of life during the night; more than any before I pay particular attention to it all around me. The fluttering of wings, footsteps drawing closer and walking away into the distance, the occasional thunder, and the whistles of the aborigines communicating in the dark. It was as if my ears were open for the very first time. Kora has been on a steady night-long-sleep. I haven’t slept… anxious for the imminent arrival of sunrise. To keep busy, I’ve been throwing twigs onto the bonfire to keep us warm. I enjoy the crackling sound of burning wood, coupled to the changing colours of both the twigs and the fire, it is as if alluding to the passages of a lifetime in just seconds.

I’ve prepared a meal for Kora and I, she’ll be up soon to get underway. She awakens ready to travel, ready to talk… If I’m not ready she’ll leave without me; not a bad thought at this point.

Leather Bowler HatI’m eager to feel the heat of the sun in the morning, to feel it strike my body until arriving at the outpost where we can ignore the sweat and suffocating weather for a few minutes. I’ve grown accustomed to the effects of the sun. I’m shirtless throughout the day most days… though covered in dust. I wear rubber-bottom cowboy boots and a old dusty leather bowler hat. At night my father’s leather overcoat prevents shivers from the unseasonably-cool breeze. I carry a day-pack with my belongings; not many, but essential for survival out here.

Kora spoke all morning long. She related about places I hadn’t yet visit, and the issues affecting her people. There wasn’t a topic she didn’t tackle. She even spoke of sexual encounters amongst the aborigines and the English.

By the time we reached the outpost, a few Englishmen were already loading two horses. They greeted me warmly, informing me that they were about to head east in my search to ask if I cared to indulge a few American tourists. As payment, these sneaky American mates brought three different bottles of whiskey from Colorado, loads of smoked beef, and dried fruits. How can I deny them with such delicacies brought to the wild! I shall take them, and drop them off in three weeks time at the abandoned post south east of here. They’ll be secure there until someone arrives to collect them.

They are an odd group. Kora continuously laughs at their mannerism… never having seen people like them; more so, men like the two in the group. Of the three people, two are males. The last is a woman in her early forties. The two men are, americanly-so, gay. Very flamboyant, friendly as can be, just as they are fearful of it all. I’m not sure why they chose me to trek the outback. There are far more accommodating guides than me. And, I’m not sure how Kora thinks these bloques will make it out in one piece. The woman stands a better chance than do the two fellows.

There are times when I pick tourists from, and return them to this very particular post. The proprietor, a young widower, allows usage of her horses for a small payment. The payment is of course, my services. Today she won’t be collecting any, I have not engaged in such services for well over a year. I haven’t a need for them at the moment. We are to set afoot for a week through some of the less traveled regions in the outback. The horses, and spending more energy here can only hinder us.

At the post Kora and I get acquainted with the tourists, eat then rest up until sun down. I indulged in too much of the fine spirits brought from the Americas than I anticipated. It was best to wait until I returned to my wits to resume the journey. Kora entertained everyone at the outpost, not hushing until it was time to leave. We are to walk for a few hours into the night. With the full moon it will be less difficult than otherwise. For the entire journey, the two men and the woman walk in a single line holding hands. They follow me and Kora ensures they don’t unsafely lag behind, she holds them tight at the end of the group.

I came to learn that they had selected to undertake this trip as a tribute to the woman’s father who had passed away here in the outback. She wasn’t American as her comrades, she was an Australian woman who’ve lived her entire life in America. Her father came home to rest in peace. He was an aborigine, and her mom was a white Australian. This journey was a homage to her departed father. The two fellows accompanying her were two of her closest friends. They didn’t know what situation they had agreed to undertake. But by the constant yelps and screams tonight… I’m fairly sure they grasp the situation.

Satisfied that we’d had enough of a head start, I set camp by a tree-lined thermal spring. That night I didn’t sleep either. The woman and I stayed awake trading stories about our fathers. She was in delightful physical condition. She appeared like one of them new-age women who spent too many hours sweating while holding strange poses at a yoga class. Her posture was incredibly flawless: standing or sitting. It was joy to watch her shape against the night with the help of a bonfire.

When light broke free of the night, her two companions awoke in an uproar. They had neglected to bring some items of utmost importance with them: digital cameras, music players, and chapstick. Kora agreed to take them back to the cabin, and catch up to us in a days time. I didn’t enjoy the idea of separating from Kora, but did welcome the thought of a quiet stroll through the outback without her. We agreed on a convening location: the mound of Birrahgnooloo, due south of our present whereabouts.

Scarlett was her name. As talkative as Kora was. I learned, at times ignored all about her. From life in college to becoming an author, she spoke of it all. I even learned that she’d only been intimate with one person: her high school sweetheart. When her father passed away, she became depressed… eventually abandoning him.

I walked ahead of her, often having to stop awaiting her slow gait to catch up. I’m not used to babysitting in the outback. It’s hard to wait on someone. It was midday, terribly hot, and it was time to eat. I set down my day-pack, instructed Scarlett to stay put until my return. I was gone close to two hours hunting a meal. I had to skin, gut and cook the three rabbits. I didn’t want to expose her to the outback faster than needed. When I returned she ate the meal not asking what it was. I assumed she preferred not knowing what it was.

I said little during the meal, but watched every move she made. My sight was fixated on her sweaty white shirt. Her breast attached the shirt speaking of full meals and pleasing sounds. She noticed me looking in her direction. She bashfully tugged at the shirt between her breasts and apologized for the sweat covered body. “Nonsense”, I exclaimed. “Sweat is part of the outback. You’ll get used to it.”

The continuation of the trek was somewhat peculiar. It was the first time that a female tourist probed into my sexual behavior. She was curious about how I managed the urge to be satisfied out in the wild. Who, when, where, how… when was the last encounter and with whom? Do I and Kara share more than a friendship? I had no reason to answer. It’s not habitual of me to reveal personal facts to strangers. I purposely disregarded the conversation; not because I ignore that I desire as much as the next primate but, out here in the outback many things entertain a person, many other things that I find more important than lust.

She wasn’t as secretive about her desires. She revealed details about her sexual preferences. What she didn’t and did like; how her monotone experiences sparked the curiosity in other men. She’d been a good girl, never deviated from her husbands ways, though often wondered about any and all the possibilities being missed by the limits of a lifelong partner. In her 40s now, she was ready to delve deeper into her sexual persona. All of the hard work on her physique was specifically for naughty purposes. Her belief was that feeling good about her appearance would draw a dormant personality. She would then have no quarrels withstanding the unknown of a controlling brute during intercourse. She’d handle it all, yet be able to fight back enticing more pleasurable-aggression from him.

Much of the sun was already under the horizon, only about a fifth stood short preventing the night from taking over. It was either pushing through ignoring hunger to a more suitable spot not two hours ahead, or listen to Scarlett who insisted we stop to bathe in the temporary lake that’d been created during the big rains up ahead. I reluctantly agreed. I was about to set off to hunt for our next meal when the sight of Scarlett undressing out in the open prevented my departure. She walked passed me into the water as if I weren’t even present. I turned to watch her walk into the lake, knee deep. She hinged at the hips right before my eyes. I wanted to forget about the next meal and consume her to my whim. But I didn’t. Instead I tossed her my knife, my whistle and asked her to use the whistle if in need of help.

I was gone for close to an hour, returning empty handed. I was far too distracted by the thought of Scarlett leaning over with her back to me. The slight changes of skin tones her body projected as muscles weaved and shaped her physique, just as did her anatomy, intoxicated me. I spent the majority of the time pondering the feast to be had with her. She made me forget about nutrition as means to survival. I desired her body as supplemental to nutrition. I licked and bit my lower lip until it throbbed. I could imagine her taste as it turned into my vitamins and minerals.

Stranahan's - Colorado WhiskeyScarlett had opened a bag of the smoked meat I received as payment from them, along with packaged goods she had been carrying. She looked to have had quite the meal. I opened a bottle of the Stranahan’s Colorado Whiskey, sat on the floor and watched her gaze into the imminent dawn of the night. She wore a pair of ripped jean; the pocket mesh was coming out of one of the openings from where the colour maroon of her undergarment was visible. She had a fashionable safari shirt alluding to her inexperience in the wild. I drank, stared, and wondered if she thought to be in the Australian Exhibit at the San Francisco zoo.

While looking up at the sky, she asked if it could get any more beautiful. “Breathtaking they are, those very little suns suspended faraway in night of the sky. I’ll start a fire to lay beside where we can rest the dark away by counting stars.”

Magnesium starters are invaluable. They can start a fire in the thick of snow. Out here, a quick swipe and Scarlett rejoices about the little flames coming from the gathered twigs. She sways her hips without much need for music. I watched her lower body move, wondering if she would be as savvy when in my grasp.

By the onset of the night Scarlett and I sat adjacent to each other throwing sticks in the bonfire. We’d lay down to stargaze until it was time to refuel the fire. Only when a shooting star sped away in the distance would we comment. It was very quiet; enough to hear each other breathe. We took turns feeding the fire until she fell asleep. I got up to ensure there was enough supply of wood to keep it burning until the morning. I didn’t go to sleep right away. I walked about the edge of the lake listening to the nocturnal life satisfying their thirst.

Eventually I returned next to Scarlett. I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but it must have been fairly quick. The next thing I recall is Scarlett shaking me awake. A howling dingo nearby scared her sleep away. She did not want to stay awake by herself, nor did she want to return to sleep fearing the dingo. I stood up, grabbed the Stranahan’s, took a big gulp and said: “What do you suppose we do in the middle of the night if not sleep?” She approached me, took the bottle from my hands and placed it back my day-pack. I wasn’t to have any more of whiskey that night. She refused I drink any more.

Scarlett again probed into my personal life; asking if Kora and I engaged in adult acts. I ignored her once, twice, thrice and again I ignored her. It wasn’t until she asked me to sit on the floor that I understood the severity of her constant inquiries. I sat on the ground facing the bonfire. Legs stretched out towards it. She stood between my legs and pushed them to the sides. Button by button she opened the Safari shirt, which she left unbuttoned exposing her bare chest to the howling dingoes.

Gab of woman between inner thighsShe wasn’t as deliberate removing her jeans; those she pushed down easily without having to unbutton. They fell to the ground with the same rapidly-fluid motion that my mouth opened. I wished for endless lightning to cover the starry-sky providing the necessary light to admire every detail of her form. I wanted to see the maroon undergarments pressed against silhouetting her intimate persona. I desired to see the opening created between her crotch and upper inner thighs when legs are held together. I wanted to see the outback through the opening.

I was told to unbuckle my belt, to unbuttoned my jeans, and to pull out. I did not anticipate her candidness, nor was I about to let her command me, I grabbed her right arm pulling her down atop of me. She straddle around my lap, telling me that she that the hard welcome was a joy. She tried to stroke me, but I refused. I wanted to engulf my lips with her breasts, run my tongue throughout the sides of her neck, even reach towards her earlobes to feel the soft of her skin against my tongue.

Her opened shirt gave way to the most supple, yet pleasantly-firm-to-the-touch chest this side of the Glosses Buff. I became instantly infatuated by them. I crafted my mouth upon her upper torso as a skilled artist would upon his canvas. The desire was to ravage her yet, the soothing touch of skin on her bare chest against my lips prevented it. It enticed me to comfort my desire with gentle maneuvering of her breasts.

The outback surrounding us hushed down to perfect silence. It all except the crackling of wood burning away in the bonfire intently listened to her and I. Dingoes, footsteps, chirps, whistles nor the wind interrupted our dialog. The still of the night gave voice to the sound of her desire, the sound of my lips against her skin. It hurt to stop the feeling of her nipples gracing my tongue, but I sought to kiss Scarlett… just Scarlett. And that we did, we kissed; at times aggressively, others gently. She’d exhale into me, I’d exhale into her. It was no more than the exchange of desire through breaths. I would have inhaled every last breath of her passion that night, had it been perpetual.

During one of the moments of aggressive kissing, she reached down, grasped me with her left hand, lifted her body and slowly lowered herself until I was fully covered by her innermost sensations. She released a slow and steady “ah” that prevented us from kissing until her wits returned. Her hips remained immobile… simply holding me steady, embracing me as if sheltering a storm. I felt the contouring of her insides pressing against me, just as I felt the saturation gradually sipping down until my scrota was covered. Her chest pressed against mine yielded glimpses of her heartbeat as it accelerated and decelerated calibrating the rush of blood throughout the organs in her body.

More eventful it didn’t come to be. There was no movement of her hips colliding against mine sending the splash of wet skin against wet skin through the desert. The most vibrant sound in the outback that moment was that of our lips kissing, of two people losing reality in one another. We remained in the same position consuming our lips until she climaxed. She struggled to kiss me at that point… she did managed opened-mouth contact against my lips coupled to moans sprinkled with sighs. I didn’t respond. I stood still waiting for her to complete the experience. She climaxed longer than I have been used to. Her expression revealed through hints of the remaining fire was enough for me to end our adventure at that point. Yet, when she finished, she looked me in the eyes and ask that I too finish inside of her; to moisten her need to be with that rugged man that didn’t respond to anything or anyone.

The sound of her voice drove chills reached every digit in my body. I opened my mouth and struggled to express what I felt. I tried looking at her, tried looking up, tried to restrain the pleasure from saturating the night. It proved impossible. She looked down at me smiling…

The fire had gone out; remaining was our bodies next to one another, totally free of clothing. The early frenzy of outback life welcoming us. It was time to press on to meet Kora, but not before tracing my hands throughout her physique.


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Persian Tea Room

For years I frequented the Persian Tea Room during lunch breaks from work. I’d visit it twice, sometimes thrice weekly. They had the most delightful tea anywhere in the area, coupled to a middle eastern cuisine left me wondering why I did not visit the venue all week long. Typical to this region, the waiters were all men. The serious and direct type. It was all business to them; never making small chat, not even to someone as myself who frequented the restaurant for such prolonged period of time; even the host was an unengaging fellow.

Then one day the place became overrun by estrogen: two waitresses and the host, all female. Part of their attire was a hijab, which left me rather impressed. I had never figured that covering of the hair painted such alluring sight. The look of deep meaningful eyes staring back in my direction excited me more than any of the naked women I had ever seen staring back at me. To improve the matters, the females were more pleasant and far more amicable.

The division between the male and the female staff members was palpable; the tension, well, I ignored as the women’s beauty was far more engaging than the shunning they appeared to be receiving from the men. Females cared for a section of the dining hall, while the males cared for the other. It was soon enough that I noticed the sitting pattern, so I waited for the precise moment to enter the restaurant which led to being sat at the same table time and again. It would have been easier to ask but, somehow I felt uncomfortable doing so. I’m not a shy man to any extent, which leaves me believing that I’m respecting enough of cultural differences that I would be troubled to let “chance” take its course.

Woman wearing a hijabIt was always a joy coming in. The decor was pleasing from the monotones “modern” look of just about it all in the area. A sure welcome sight to feel the vibrancy of the restaurant with it’s middle eastern background music and aromatic spices emerging from the kitchen. The hostess ensured to greet me in a joyous tone each visit. It was as if she was delighted to see me. She would also come by my table, pull a chair and small chat. I never even had to wait, always ensured to have the very same table. A dramatic difference from the follow who used to show me to my table in times past.

It wasn’t just the hostess who became friendly with me. It was also one of the two new waitresses who cared for the table in which I sat. Number 12, that was the table in which I sat. It also happens to be my favorite number. She and I developed more than a waitress-client relationship. I would say we became good acquaintances. She stayed longer than required at my table, conversing about life in general. She’d tell me about her life, and I about mine… about the joy that it was for everyday to come spend an hour of my life in her presence.

The appearance of her olive skin coupled to an incredibly spotless white-teeth-smile resonated in her colourful eyes. Looking into her eyes gave no reason to wander elsewhere. It was her who I went to meet every visit. All the vitalizing characteristics of the restaurant were opaqued by her eyes. I tried valiantly not to signal that my desires followed her as she moved from table to table.

Episodes of debauchery replaced line items on the menu. I read them intently wondering which of them I was to be had every time I visited. Sometimes I’d read for nearly the entire hour, at which time I had to rush for a small dessert and few cups of tea. Still, I would leave satisfied that I had spoken to her, that I had shared dreams of consuming her while in her presence. It somehow made it all feel more real: her being in the room while I dreamt of having her. I made it an art, that of looking at her figure as she moved from position to position adjusting herself to clear tables.

I don’t recall the exact date where it all changed. It was sometime after management changed. The male staff was replaced with different men but; the ladies were kept. The feeling in the air, too, changed. The women were more progressive in mannerism, less restrained I would say. My waitress began to take my order from a closer position, sometimes she would join the hostess at my table to welcome me. I learned most of everything I did about her roughly one year before the incident that broke our relationship.

The attraction between the two of us wasn’t a secret to us. Even when the connection elevated to a more adult-natured one, it was no secret that our insinuations indicated more than restaurant-geared interactions. She flirted, oh and she flirted well with her eyes. It was the type of action that seemed void to American women. She made me feel alive, aroused, seduced with the variation of looks and stares she projected. A master she was at revealing her desires through the eyes.

When it happened, there was no prelude nor omen forewarning me. I came in, but not as usual. I had given up the mockery to be sat on the same table a few weeks back. I was greeted as usual, both the hostess and the waitress walked me to the table, all of us briefly chatted while standing, but instead of leaving to bring me the normal cup of tea with cubed sugar, the waitress remained behind, looked around, and handed me a piece of paper.

She disappeared for a few minutes, bringing with her my normal dish, and sides when reappearing. I picked through the side dishes, looked about the dining area and walked off in direction of the kitchen. As I drew closer to the kitchen, a light powered on to the right of the its entrance. It was the kitchen storage room. A beaded curtain was the only protection keeping the contents inside visible from the outside. I push aside the curtain, leaned in, look to the left… between the meat freezer and the spices’ rack stood a woman whose mind had been certainly westernized.

Woman wearing a hijabShe still wore the hijab, but her dress was being sustained by her left hand covering her crotch, most of it on the floor around her ankles. I’m no authority on muslim wear, but I don’t think she wore a Burquaa or Ridaa, this was more like a Sari. Still, whatever the dress was it looked just as good on her as it did in its many colours on the floor, and over her feet.

The olive of her skin felt haunting in the lightly lit room. I admired her beauty for long moments until she opened her grasp, and the dress gave way to her groomed, but not totally void of hair, nor manicured to form any specific shape essence. It was just shaped enough where it expressed more intimate knowledge of sexual awareness than I had believed. There was no need to speak, everything I needed to know was revealed by her stare into my eyes. It told me that her world of boundaries laid to the other side of the beaded entryway.

My intentions were to directly indulge in her groomed self, but instead her eyes drew me face to face. We kissed softly, very softly for longer than I had ever cared to kiss anyone. That day I only used my lips on her mouth, kissing as if losing my breath to her. I didn’t need to close my eyes because the world around me blacked out. It was the darkest dark I had ever witnessed. During the kissing she unbuckled my slacks, dropped them to the floor, and pulled me outside my underpants. She didn’t play, she didn’t try any sort of foreign technique on me. She simply reached up with her pelvis, swallowing me ever so slowly.

Fire rushed through my veins raising my body temperature to the point where perspiration responded. I knew then that this was an event sent by a higher calling. I didn’t want to respond in any other stance than the one where our lips locked to each other’s and our pelvis slightly swayed onto one another. That was the lunch time I learned to feel the climax of a woman who revealed no expressions of pleasure from the fear of being exposed during such an intimate moment. I felt the her warmth completely overtake me inside of her. It was as if she had spoken to me, greeting me to a world in which I was the alien. The kissing stopped, so did the movement of the hips. She looked me in the eyes, again, said nothing because she didn’t need to speak.

She grabbed my face, kissed my lips softly, stared into my eyes one last time… Woman wearing a hijab

When I returned to for my normal lunch two days after, she was gone. Not to return for another 30 days. I found out she married during that absence. Now I sit and small talk seldom with her. She sits me down, keeps her distance; only the times I leave her eyes speak to me. Sometimes they apologize, others they thank me.


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Telephonic Response

I’ve performed difficult acts with a detached expression, felt various emotions under a stoic look yet, I have never been confronted with such difficulties as I did searching for a proper response to the participants of my weekly conference call that Tuesday morning. I assure you that I’ve been much closer to earning an Oscar at many other occasions than I was during this one. I fear not a consideration was even mentioned.

I woke up late for the call. I suspect because of a long night at the office. I stumbled out of bed bumping into the closet door, and banging my toe against the bathroom’s door frame. I toss water on my face, brush my teeth, speak a bit to myself to ensure I do not sound asleep, look down… and thank all goodness that I am at home not at the office. Like all healthy biologically functioning males, every night for a period of a few hours, God verifies that his tool of procreation is in working order.

Yes, I do sleep in the nude; being home alone affords me that comfort. I can wake up half asleep, be in full duty without anyone noticing that I’m more than ready for physical interactions. It takes a good ten to twenty minutes for the biological testing phase to return to a less obvious state. Much shorter if I wake up with a need to urinate, but today, I must be dehydrated because I have no urge to do so.

Instead of sitting down on the couch, I grabbed my work mobile and lean against the bar top dividing the kitchen from the living room. I have this oddity that if I’m clothes-less, engorged and on the phone, I end up stroking myself to pass the time while conversing. Knowing that I would eventually do that if I sat down, I decided to stay up and lean against the bar top. I dial in, wait for the tone to announce my late arrival, then greet everyone on the call.

My superiors are all present, as well as the head of two of our three large partners. We are going to be talking serious financial risks, and I am the knowledge behind the operation. I’m not all that late to the call thanks to my boss who is known for his southern hospitality. He talks for chunks of time about the least of caring topics. Now that I’m on, we are ready to talk risks. We take turns explaining the goals, expectations, and risks.

Yellow Undies, Luckily DayI had long ago forgotten that I awakened amidst anatomical testing of my body. I was tunneled into one thought: how to get those big clients to become bigger in order to spend more on us, on me. Suddenly the lights in the living-room power on. I think of ghosts controlling the remote controls, turn around in fright expecting to see a floating globule, but instead I see my neighbor in her undergarments… the yellow “Luckly Day” bottom disconnects my attention from financial risks, and quarterly expectations. I forgot that I found her inebriated the night before, and because she had no personal belongings on her, including her apartment keys, I brought her to my couch and allowed her to spend the night until she recovered, remembering where to find her keys.

With a soft and gentle tone she whispers for me not to be alarmed. That she will not be of bother to me while I’m on the phone. I look for something to cover up, but it’s too late. I’ve responded to her physique both mentally and physically. I’m mentally incapable of continuing the conference call, and I’m physically unable to muster strength to keep myself from another anatomical test. This time, however, I would hate for it to be just a test.

She draws close, I turn around giving her my back, figuring that at least she will not see my masculinity void of embarrassment thinking of her. She goes right into the kitchen, opens the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, drinks from it and looks at me with a deviant stare. In the meantime, I am paying undividedly no attention to those on the phone. My attention has solely been tuned to the yellow panties.

She walks around the other kitchen exit leading me to believe that she’s on her way to the bathroom. I quickly look around, look down at my partner and can’t figure out where to hide. She wasn’t going to the bathroom though, she came behind me… her touch froze me. I didn’t move, I didn’t speak,I didn’t even breathe… I did, however, heard the voice of my boss asking me to answer the posted questions. I took a deep breath, it was more like half of an ill breath as only a quarter of my lungs answered the calling.

Her hands traced from my shoulders, down my back, up again to my shoulders, my neck, down the flanks. One hand caressed my buttocks, but the other, the other moved forward touching my hip bone, then tracing it down to my friend who had long ago been expecting her. I kept as much attention on the conference call as anyone on my position would. Intermittently losing my bearing when she would kiss my back, or stroke me. She stroke slowly, very slowly… telling me that she enjoyed how my physique felt on her hands, how the different parts felt as she moved up and down. That she wondered how different it would feel in her mouth, against her lips than on her hand.

The hand remaining on my rear was a daring one. She ran it up and down, squeezed, lightly smacked, even went down the middle reaching the front and caressing the confinement of my testicles. I apologized to those on the phone, expressed that I had had a slight distraction and needed the questions to be repeated. One of my bosses summarized the questions. I tried to respond best I could.

I lost my voice a few times, concentration to the call more than a few. Her interruptions of my work, while ill timed, were perfectly received. Her stroke had grown stronger, faster. I looked down to see the manicured long nails, and strong fingers working on me. I liked how she squeezed me tightly as if seeking to pop it like a balloon. Best yet, I liked that she dug her nails into me while whispering if I liked her behaviour.

I continued to answer the questions incoherently, articulating much of nothing, accompanied with a lot of deep breaths. My bosses weren’t very much please. I just didn’t have my full wits that morning. They were more a tune to the lips that approached me with a sweet voice that spoke of much needed lubrication. Telling me that saliva was much the needed substance. I went into her mouth, my mind closed to the call. I could only feel her lips tracing about the head.

The sounds she made making sure she salivated me throughly lured me in more than the prospects of becoming a wealthy individual as I would have had I answered those questions properly. I came back to the call under a heavy burdensome breathing. I tried to save what I could, but her inability to let me concentrate was deteriorating. By now she was back kissing my back, her right hand across my hip… down to me; tugging and pulling with serious intent. She spoke the whole time, my voice quivered on the phone; she asked if I liked her yellow panties, I mistakenly moaned on the call; she told me that I would climax on my hands, I raised my voice as if on the park; she said not to worry that she would lick it clean, I dropped the phone.

I went on to moan, curse, and bang my hand against the counter-top. I even apologized to those on the call. I know for a fact that they heard me climax because I was too loud, and they were still on the phone when my bearings were returned to my wit, and her mouth had completed cleansing her work. I’m still attempting to feel bad about not getting the clients to wager more money on me.


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My Bearded Man

Part of my symptomology is a healthy dislike, not fear but dislike of germs. It’s turned me into a habitual hand-washer, groomer of the self. I am indeed, as clean as I look. So when I found myself pressed against the bed by a bearded man reminiscent of the late 1890s to mid 1940s scholarly “clads”, visions of an Elder Hemingway captured my thoughts… even if much younger he was. I felt, in all reality, party of a poem. Young Bearded Man

I was no longer tormented by whatever undisclosed germs entwined his facial hair strands. All I wanted to do was feel his lips traversing my spine with the common interruption of hair against my skin. I came to believe that this man might teach me a lesson, not a sexual one, but one of life experience, one of literacy nature where he’d not only handle me strongly, but somehow manage to make me a character in his poem.

Concentrated solely on his actions I was. Feeling his firm grasp massaging my right and left flanks while his mouth made slow work of my back, enticing my mind to conceive the sort of writing that he’d do with the rest of my body. Then…

My thoughts and reality united by the unexpected sight of his bare chest. I have been raised in a time that sees hair but as repulsive sign of the human anatomy. Hair is considered the uncivilized, uncared disgust of the human structure by those who are in the “IN” of the fashion industry. While it could be argued in support of their views for an organically-grown-out-of-control hairy physique… I argued to support hair, and against current dogma about it simply because of his sort of manicured chest that turned his physique into a rugged, manly reverie.

He infused my society-structured beliefs with rage when I saw his bare chest, then torso down to his belt buckle where the obliques pronounced themselves until covered by the pants. I had been lied to, shaped to believe what others wanted me to believe, but now I wondered what hid at the end of the “V” shaped muscle towards his lower abdomen. There was no time to analyze the perception of the few sold to the many, sold to me.

I could see his shoulders, his forearms flexing as he prevented gravity form forcing him onto my back. This man was built by uncountable years of evolution bestowing upon him the prowess to lure the opposite sex. It had given him allure, seduction, by all mighty God, facial as well as body hair. It had given him a physique desired by any and all fitness aficionados. …and he was right behind me speaking to my skin the way only learned men can muster.

He journeyed towards my rear with the gentle of his lips; the bites to my lower back sending goosebumps up and down my spine. The hairs on his beard touching every part of me introduced me to the unacquainted delights that can only be brought about by masculine hair. I felt intoxicated by the verses, stanzas, and couplets he summoned from within me. I was filled with the need to have this man inside of me. To hear how I sounded completing schemes of rhymes and meters with each inch that delved deep inside of me.

Do you know how it feels to have your hips lifted from the bed slightly to the point where your crotch lifts from the bed giving clear passage to a woman’s wonder to a bearded man? I have! He toyed with me as if I was a writing utensil during a free form writing barrage. His mouth touched my glutes all about and precisely at the center of my attentions. He traced about the orifice, slightly piercing me with his tongue, his moustache and beard running amok upon my rear massaging, enticing, telling me of a world far beyond pre-pubescent ideals. He bit my buttcheek, and not very softly. I liked it, and hoped to all grandeur that I see his teeth embroidered on me so that I could see in the morning that his look of medieval sophistication had more medieval than sophistication.

The enticing of my rear wasn’t the sole consumption he made that day. He kept my hips elevated from the bed while he traced all about my labia, both inner and outer. He would bite my lips with his lips and tug on them as if informing me that this stanza might only rhyme with vulgarities. I loved the feeling of his hands on my pelvis, holding me, spreading me as if a butterfly basking in the morning sun before preparing to take flight. But flight wasn’t to be had…

The bearded man shoved his face into me, his nose touched the orifice of my butt while his lips, mustache, and beard suffocated my belief. He then meticulously lowered his nose from the orifice of my rear end down to the my pulsating being, all while taking a profound breadth as if a pedestrian on a flower garden. When he pulled me up to my knees, and laid down on the bed, I rushed my left hand to clean the moisture I had left on his facial hair. He caught my hand in mid flight shaking his head declining my symptomology. He wanted his beard to remain entrenched in the lust of my secretion.

He called me down next to him, led me to kiss his lips, then down to his chest where I felt for the very first time the difference between a man and a boy. I wasn’t only immersed in his chest with my mouth, but also my hands as I squeezed hard, dug my nails, and caressed his groomed chest. Little by little he continued to push my head towards the crotch. For a little while I stayed running my index in and out of the lines created by his crafted abdomen. One hand I kept seducing the hairs on his chest. Oh how I wished to fall asleep touching this very man.

With one swift push of my head I came face to face with all of him. He maneuvered my head from his inner thighs, lower abdomen, and pelvic bone, to his navel, but never to his engorged body, traced with protruding veins and a glistening head. I wasn’t allowed to put my mouth, my lips, my tongue on it. I even asked to allow me feel him just a tad so, even if it’s running my lips from the tip, down the side and inserting the scrotum in my mouth… a little just to wet him and slightly clench my appetite to feel him inside my mouth.

He didn’t oblige. He ignored my pleas to shove him in my mouth. He simply wanted me to reveal my desire to be seduced, and abused.

For the next few hours I laid beside him, watching him sleep, tracing his lips with my index finger, running my hands on his chest, on his abdomen. I had long ago forgotten about the moisture trapped in my crotch, about the need to feel every inch of his being pushing me to the edge of desire. Now I watched him, wondering how this hairy man came to lay on my bed. How this man left me secreting desire while he effortlessly fell asleep. How he managed to release me of this dire need to constantly wash my hands. I now waited until he awakened so that I could fulfill my appetite by climaxing and laying in bed with remnants of his poem written on my face, lips, chest, ass, and, well, the book in which I’m waiting for him to write his final stanza.


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One Year of My Life

This morning I reached into my back pocket, pulled out the wallet, flipped it open and slowly nudged a coin I’ve carried on me since I turned into a “man”. It read 1944, the year my father declared to neighbors and friends that I had turn into a “man”. Becoming a “man” in my country is a telling event for father and son. I had seen it bring together families as I had seen it pull others apart.

Throughout my childhood it was stressed that successfully passing the event on the first attempt granted rights to a brotherhood exclusive to males. The brotherhood was small, most of the members were very old men. There were also a few young members — around my age or so, but not many. The gap in age was created by the death of nearly a full generation of men from my village at the hands of the fascists. So, gaining rights to one was a great honor.

For the entire year, i was to follow my dad around, learning from him how to become a man; how to gain knowledge that would allow me to feed my future family as well as protect them. That year I gained more knowledge about my father than I had in the 15 previous years of my life. He taught me to defend myself, taught me how to court a woman, how to work with my hands, steal when necessary, drink moonshine and the key to all true men: play domino.Dominoes

The knowledge gained through the year, though, was not necessary for the “ritual”. It was all part of becoming a productive member of the village. I was a normal kid, played and got into trouble all my life; took a few good whippings by both my and dad. So when January 1st came about that year, I was ready to become a man.

Of the talents my father passed down during that exciting year, gosh, I was mostly interested in domino play. I followed him from tournament to tournament, tied to his hip watching him cheat, win and lose. The cheating during the games was the best, I never managed to understand how he didn’t get caught. He won prize after prize with his hidden signals. It was a source of pride to speak about him as a winner. That’s what I wanted to become, but to do so, I had to first pass this ritual I knew nothing about.

I got to visit the local pub after dark with my father, where members of the brotherhood would take bets on the outcome of my ritual. How exciting it was to laugh with them, with my dad, to feel like a grown up. I couldn’t wait to become part of the group. If hanging out late at night, talking to random women, drinking and playing dominoes was what men did after a long day’s wage, then I wanted part of it.

The last month, in December 1944, things became a little more detailed. My father, his leather flask filled with red wine, and I would stay up on the porch talking about women. Talking about what it was to be a man, specifically, what it was to be a man in bed with a woman. I hadn’t a clue why he’d chosen to reveal such intimate details about adult interaction, but for the first twenty days of December he went on to describe in great detail the women he had been with, the things he did to them, except for my mom, of course… supposedly she was some sort of saint, so he told me.

On the 21st day of December, the day of my birthday, the day of my ritual, I woke up later than usual. It was around 4PM when I woke up. Dinner was set on the table, and the entire family waited for me. The good china, and silverware were set. My plate had a different meal than the rest of the family. My meal was specifically prepared by my father. It consisted mostly of protein prepared with a few herbs said to rise vitality. My father and mother spoke about the need for me to pay careful attention to my father tonight, to follow his lead and make the family proud.

My mother had selected what I would wear to town that night: a new suit she had sewn for me. After dinner, my mother helped me dress while my father prepared a last drink for him and I. We left the house at 8PM, all the neighbors wishing me luck. While I was gone, the village was to celebrate at my house until my return.

The walk to town took some 45 minutes. Though I asked, my father didn’t mention anything about what to expect at the ritual. He spoke of growing up, of the heartaches he crossed courting my mother, how the war impacted the brotherhood… he spoke of everything except the ritual. I even forgot it was my birthday and where we were going. Were it not for the direction we took upon arriving in town, I wouldn’t have remembered the intentions of the night. We headed towards a part of town that I had always been warned about visiting. It was a part of town where it was said a few men became women and a children became men.

dark pathThere were a few scattered lights throughout the path pointing us in the proper direction. At the end of the path I could see many lights, hear a large crowd, even scuffles of wild animals. The code to enter the gated area was my birth date, and family name. My father stood as my representative, and signed papers that on December 21st, 1944 I visited to collect my right to become a man;I still own that piece of paper.

Inside the gates two large men instructed my father to inform me of the process. They brought us inside a large beautiful house — the fanciest I had ever seen — sat us down and brought us two glasses of cheap red wine.

My dad said,
      Son, through those doors is a large room. There will be many other young men in there.
      Not everyone will get to go on the first hand. Everyone will be dealt a card, the highest
      numbered card will get first selection. You have the right to consult with me about your
      choice. The twelve people with the highest cards go on the first round. There is a time
      limit of 30 minutes, and rounds will continue until everyone goes. Understood?

I was clear on the rules but, because i was scared, I didn’t ask any question. There were over 30 other participants in the large room. We all looked equally scared. Before we got a chance to get situated, an elderly woman walked out with a deck of cards, asked us to circle about her, then proceeded to shuffle the cards. She handed one card to everyone, told us to look at it, then Ace of Clubscalled out for everyone with an Ace, a three, or a king to step forward. I was among them. We were to be the first round of participants. She then drew suit based on the sequential order in which she pulled them from the deck of cards. Clubs, swords, golds, and cups were pulled out respectively. I had the Ace of clubs, so I got first pick. She called my father, who had been cheering me on, to stand beside me, and asked if I wanted him to go through another set of doors in case I needed advice selecting or negotiating.

Women LineupMy father didn’t wait for the remaining order of participants to be set. He pulled me towards the set of doors while giving me a pep talk. He was proud of me, even if nothing did happen that night. The fact that I was first made him proud. When we walked through the doors twelve women stood nude in line. He told me to bring the card to the one I liked the most, that we would “look her over” and decided if she was the one for me.

I had never seen a woman fully nude before. I didn’t know what to look for, what to say, nor what I was doing in there. My father took the lead, he walked me close to the girls and had them stand in various poses. He told me that he knew what he liked, but it wasn’t necessarily the same that I liked. So, he would pick three girls for me but, I had to make the final selection for myself. First was a young brunette, she was the prettiest of the three, with small breasts yet, a rear that slopped outwardly as if mountain range. I liked her from the beginning and thought she was going to be my final choice. The second was a young blond, she was also very attractive with large breast and small bottom, though her front where it matters at the bottom was the most protruding of the three. The third, and last woman was also a brunette, athletic body, very pretty smile with big dark eyes. She wasn’t big anywhere, but for some reason she called my attention the most at the end.

I picked her, the last. She took me to a room and asked me what I wanted to do. That her thoughts about my performance were to be used as measure to be granted access into the brotherhood. I was shocked. Women weren’t supposed to know about the brotherhood, nor the ritual. She asked me what I wanted to do. All the advice my dad gave me disappeared, I did not remember anything he had told me. Not one thing I remembered! I looked at her, swallowed hard and told her that I was a virgin. That I had no idea why my father had brought me here, and that I really didn’t want any part of it. That I wanted to be in love when something did happen.

She got up, tore the button and zipper of my pants, and shoved my virginity in her mouth. I pushed back and tried to fight her off. She then looked at me straight in the eyes, laid down on the bed, spread her legs and told me to come suck her. She was plentiful, plush, unshaven, I suddenly remembered my dad’s words to talk to her, to tell her what to do to me. That it would ease my nerves giving out commands rather than taking commands. So, I told her to get up and shoved me inside her mouth again.

There she stood for a long time, fear not letting me climax… all I did was hold her head and feel it move. She tired of it, and told me that we had to have intercourse in order to become a man. I bent her over the side of one of the sofas, as my dad had explained he had done his first time, got real close, and… I missed the right entrance. She pushed back and told me that to do that we needed lubricant. I had no idea what she was saying, my father had mentioned that it slipped right in for him; but, for me, it wasn’t working. She pulled out some type of lubricant, put it on me, put it on her, then leaned over the sofa again, and directed me with her hand until I was swallowed in. I could feel my scrotum hitting something moist, they, themselves moistening from the impacting against it.

After a few thrust into what I thought was the correct entrance, she stood up turned around, spread her legs, and told me to come feel the right entrance. It sure felt different, it was very slippery, warmer and best of all… I could see her big bright eyes. Though I tried and tried and tried, the 30 minutes weren’t enough for me to climax. At the 30 minute mark the elderly woman and my dad walked in on us to stop the action. I was still hard, breathing heavily, she was spread in bed. The elderly woman briefly spoke to the girl, then my father. After some minutes she asked my dad to take his right and have a turn at the girl. My father declined, and instead told the girl to perform falletio on me until I did climax. But this time, a second girl was there, she was face up on the floor performing conalingus on the young girl while she orally pleasured me. It took not 3 minutes for me to drip into her mouth, her chest, and the head of the girl sucking her at the bottom.

My dad laughed, patted me on the back and greeted me welcome to the brotherhood. He gave me that 1944 coin to pay the girl, but the elderly lady decline the payment. I went home still engorged, scared that it would detonate in my pants. My father chanting, drinking his wine. He’s boy had become a “man”. And that’s my story of the coin in my wallet that reminds me of the year 1944.


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Satisfying Meal

Gluttony, while it might be one of the seven deadly sins, the seventh and last in the latest revised version, should be disregarded as a one. I’m hopeful to persuade myself that the over indulgence that actually lead to the most satisfying meal I’ve ever enjoyed will be cleared in the eyes of God… relinquish me from eternal damnation. How can God, after all, deny a man such delight if it really wasn’t meant to overindulge?

I remember it as if it was happening right now. I can see the sun going down over the bay, turning the clouds orange in colour, giving the ocean a sense of calm in the presence of a few scattered seagulls flying close to the water. Their chant is unique, almost as if part of a complex pattern that screams out tranquility to human perception.

I must tell you about my companion if this anecdote is to make any sense. She and I remained the last two at her restaurant, see, she’s not only the Chef, but also the owner of Oceano: a small sea-shore restaurant in the Bay Area with floor to ceiling glass doors that when opened allow the sea-breeze to pierce one as if Cupid’s arrow through the heart. It brought with it the smell of the setting sun intertwined with oceanic aromas; not the stench of freshly caught fish and their intestines all over fishing boats, but one of nature where it was gratifyingly apparent that one was close to the sea.

She had prepared me a dish, said it was especially crafted for this occasion. She called it Oceano Unico. Were I well versed in intricacies of modern cuisine, I bet I could have been able to identify what was what and how it became to be called Oceano Unico.

I don’t know how I ended up with my face glued to the dish. While I might not know how it all happened, I can try my earnest to reveal the details of the dish that’s turned Gluttony to a miracle made in heaven.

I have this pet peeve against eating with my bare hands, a big one, too. I can swear upon a bible that I had never in my adult life, until meeting that dish, used my hands in such ways. They weren’t mere hands, but utensils crafting and molding the meal. It was hard to breathe from time to time because of my inability to come up for a moment of rest. I felt that if I removed my mouth from the meal it would disappear to never be had again. So, from deep within me I was given the strength, the stamina to consume that plate presented to me.

Upon touching my tongue, my mouth would water. I could literally taste the aroma traveling up my tongue, around my teeth, the roof of my mouth, and once I swallowed… God, savior of all, I felt that I had become part of what fanatics call paradise. My mouth was saturated in the sauce that seemingly increased in volume with each stroke of my fingers, of my mouth upon the meal.

Before walking into this restaurant I was a starved man, but now, now I have been consuming a dish as if a steak at stray dog party. She looked at me intently, from time to time letting me know the joy within her watching me behave as I did. My hands, oh my hands, how they were involved in the action. I might as well have been looking for priceless jewels the manner in which they behaved. I felt not a part of me could miss the meal. That if I was to die for Gluttony it would be all of me that was to be held responsible for it. The sauce, who in the right world has tasted such? I bet you not the greeks, egyptians, mayan, well maybe the Olympians… but I was there, carving into the perfection found before my face named, rightfully so, Oceano Unico.

The aroma of the ocean coming through the ceiling-to-floor doors coupled to the scent emerging from, what I can only describe as this “Immortata”, was mind numbing. Had any of you shared it, you too would claim that your dish, well, that your dish isn’t comparable to this dish. I thank Goodness that when the reason fails to understand actions, there are feelings to carry the ecstasy from the outer world deep into my emotional being.

It wasn’t just the taste, my dear friends, but also how the sauce looked dripping from the top layers down the sides onto the dish. The colours that it brought out of the meal, just as the sparkles it produced as it moved from the center of the meal, out to the sides and down… I would use my fingers just to trace the dripping liquid, bring it back to my mouth and suck it off as if a little kid. I even had to have her taste it off of my finger. I traced around the dish, looked at her, came up just for a moment to bring my finger to her lips, and… have her taste what she’d been missing up to that moment.

Upon resuming the delight, the table started shaking, and she grabbed me by the hair, shoved my face against the meal, and moaned to world’s end. She became part of the singing seagulls, part of the ocean breeze, part of the meal that I can guarantee was the most satisfying of them all.