Sex with the Undead
They never really opened their legs too much. They’d just lie there, waiting for it to happen. Maybe they’d put an arm up, hand over their head, in that enticing, come hither pose. Like the blonde sports car tramp in Two For The Road. Now, that was sexy.
Sometimes, they’d creep to each other’s houses in the early morning, tapping on the bedroom windows. “Let me in. I want you.” And they’d start their days in a romantic bliss, post climax joy and kisses all over. Maybe it’d be twice, schedules permitting. Or maybe they’d just stay in bed all day long until it hurt too much to continue. Yet still wanting more.
They occasionally had one night stands, their pick-ups whispering quiet turn-ons during the foreplay. What?, they asked. No, don’t… As the seduction increased, they’d be silently cajoling other erotic dimensions into this one-dimensional fucking.
Did they do it on the table? By the window? On the sidewalk under the street light in the middle of the night? Moaning, groaning excited. Waking the neighbors. Or in the backyard, with sun and champagne, till the copter hovered too long and they modestly ran inside?
They got distracted from television one night, the clothes came off, and they were suddenly on the floor. The chemistry was good. They were breaking out in tiny beads of sweat, getting even closer, moving faster, in joined harmony when… BOOM! He exploded into her like a high-powered rocket, just as she too was cumming, the train all the way into the tunnel. It was cumulatively amazing - their shared feelings of ecstacy, of obliteration, of co-mingling, of physically being spent, yet super humanly charged. They both died, went to heaven, and came back in the fluttering of eyes, hearts, bodies.
Nothing could divide them when they first met. It was artistic attraction. She had bared her breasts first, he somewhat then showed whole, and it was no big deal, except in their carnal minds. It seemed, they both knew, yeah, this was it. Let’s bent.
One time they inadvertently met. Inevitable, though. All previous happenstance meetings had led up to this joining, taking them both crazily, right here right now. God, the window was open. The whole world can see. Yet, this is what they desire, their bodies, their being, their essence, right now. They nuded in conjunction, their visions syncing. Upright. They moved, grooved. Vertical. That was it. Drops dripped permanently to the carpet. Forever, they reflected, more. That was it.
Alone. At home. Another weekend. They move again like they’ve always moved. Their rituals losing fun. This again? Nothing new? I know where you’re going OK, OK - but still they react in harmonic convergence. They first realized sparkin’ was it - their ways blending totally. Reflecting old patterns, communing into new ways. Their hands. That part. That move.
Onetime, early, they turned over. Was it now time? Was this their direction, now lovingly from behind? They spooned, they groveled. They satisfied. OK, now, was this it?
Once it was automatic, a sweat and a slide in the mornings, eternally, always, a post-dinner aperitif, a daily loving enhancement reinforcement. Life was great. They always moved together.
They have each other, but, now, c’mon let’s groove. The angels above approve. It’s alright. Let’s go! But why do they lay there? Who’s waiting for whom, so?
Total deep penetration. Oh my god, you’re the one. This is it, baby. When they could go oral, nothing happened. No ecstacy, no continence, no release, no bother, only un-happening. Tired mouths. They wanted more, but I guess it wasn’t there.
Gomometcha, gonna catcha, you’re a candy, girl; what a nasty girl, what a tasty, girl.
She once eased over next to him at the table and rubbed the soft of her belly against his shoulder and then she lifted up on the balls of her bare feet and he could feel the bewhiskered notch of her legs scratch at his skin through her thin dress. Into his ear she whispered, “I wish we’d hug til we faint.” She took his left hand from next to his plate and ran it up under her skirt and rested it high on her thigh so that he could feel that she had nothing on. She shifted and rolled until she was sitting on the table before him, her legs astraddle him, her feet resting on the arms of his chair. She pulled her skirt up to bunch around at her waist, and leaned back on her elbows and said, “Yes. Care to move closer?” His mind couldn’t shape words, for he felt behexed. His handprint remained on her thigh, and beyond that, the gaping aperture. It seemed extraordinarily fascinating even though it was but a mere slot in flesh. She shrugged her shoulders out of the dress top and her breasts came spilling out, pale nipples growing erect in arousal. She leaned forward and pulled his head into the rift between her breasts. He licked long and smooth. She let her head fall backward…
They fled into the night, far away, totally tropical, arranging and rearranging themselves with abandon. During it, the night steward came and set the night lighting. He glanced and saw it all - and took it in as if nothing. They both saw him, but kept going. There they were after almost a week in the sun, alone, romantic, finally, surprisingly oral. And he’s flipping the light switches while they’re enticing the bone. He’s probably seen it before, taken it home and told about it at the family dinner table - how weird, talking about these forbidden sex acts of foreign tourists all the time while eating under the vision of the virgin mary - these tourists, but, god, they’re here for this time romantically, also, aren’t they? So he saw? And they too.
Evening inclusions found them deeper and deeper together. This was them. They prodded, they tweaked, they rubbed, they unzipped, they rent asunder, they became hot and heavy, they sucked, they stopped, they kissed even harder, they stroked and writhed and flowed and convulsed and pumped like noone else. They wondered what it’s all about.
Sometimes, over sorrow, it was the same old. Where was anything new?
The pook of their bellies, the arc of their asses, like angels on the sheets. They were together.
The hair from both their pudenda hung down low. Deep, dark, mysterious. It was gnarly. It was gross. They rather wished for open-fleshed sandwiches. The better to stroke you with, my dear. The better to suck you with, my pearl. The better to see you with, my lovely. The better for you, my true love. But their hair got in the way, causing intermittent removal hiatuses from the moving sex. Wait. Don’t lose that feeling…
Now… again, forests to divide, furrows to hoe, cleaves to render. But wait… this darn pubic in my incisor. Just a sec, honey, there, I’ve got it. Where were we? Ah, the damp jungle of love… Ready for some deforestation. Yes…
The time came for them when it became rote. A good rote, but still rote.
They once laid, maybe got, out of town on the floor just millimeters away from their traveling companion. He’d been busted by security for his ray-gun and wasn’t all of sorts. They needlessly were enjoying their love-time and this surreptitious co-mingling was both ecstatic and excitingly erotic. Him, right there - hush, don’t squeal too much during climax, OK? It’s just between glowing us. He’ll never know, but, God, they remembered.
Kinda like the times they’d recluse to the nearest closets at parties. This kinda was their thing because it became so intriguing the more it progressed. How variant could it get? Not the explicits, but the environs. In the dark or maybe not? Room to move the hangers? The first time - when they got barged in on - made it that new rare enticing moment. The most intimate time when abandonment and bestiality combined with total love and pleasure to perfect the sexual experience and then pre-blammo - coitus interruptous, exciting at the moment of truth Whoa – not now! Unknowing interruptions. But they’re getting addicted to this sparkling arousal. So they partied down - their excitement…
Why did they have to work so hard now, just to have pleasant sex? Was it age - was it hormones - was it repeat? Things were changing… their bodies becoming different, life’s venture creating new realities. But what about the old ways? Where were they?
There they were, trying to get off, full spread thighs, cunt wide open, dick hard, rubbing next to her open mouth, arms bound, facing the camera. Instamatic. Is this it?, Licking their lips, trying so hard…
They know they both wish they could be together. Forever and always, but, is it working out?
Long ago they put their hands on each other, rewrote in finger touching language the true oneness of their togetherness and knew it was forever. It still goes on. So that’s covered, but…
Touch. The touch. They wanted the touch. They needed the touch. Isn’t that what the touch is all about? That ultimate touch. Remember that touch? Y’know, that one touch? The touch that changed it all. Made it, OK. What they still want. That sensual skin-ness touch. Their old touch. That touch.
Kinda like the teens, when this whole thing comes a’rearing. Sex out loud and pimply. When it’s a wild and new thing.
They take that cozy weekend for two, kids finally gone, and again realize the ultimate boundaries of their togetherness. Fuck the clothes, fuck the restaurants, they just want each other. Fuck. Right here right now. (And maybe room service, too.)
They roll in slow, pelvi-rhythmic gyrations, he from the back. His hands wrapped around her torso, swaddling her breasts with upper-arms, a knowing turn-on for both of them. Remember the old times? Their intimacy renews itself instantly. Yes, this is what it was like, only, God, this is…
They must realize in their changings that this love’s what it’s all about. Spiritual. Mental. Physical. Especially that. Now and knowingly forever. Life and time move on. Yet, this remains. Show us now, baby.
They gotta move. Gotta have sex
with the undead.
12.97 - 4.98