Sometimes it's good to be a bit "off" as they say across the pond. Because when life throws you one, you barely topple. Today was like that.
But when I returned home and a mama deer was peacefully munching grass with her baby right across the street I thought, "Well now. Life is weird. Life is good. And so am I."
Apparently today is "National Punctuation Day." Here's a little ditty from the archives. All about punctuation. And tasty words. And books. And diction. And stuff.
Manny Cruz is sweating. His hand is India ink on the white marble countertop. A damp pool of it. I look up at him, sternly, through black-framed cat-eyes.
There is a rustle of yellow chiffon against calf as I reach for my stamp. I press wet rubber to paper and mark the due date. My recommendation. I know what he’ll ask next. “English lessons?” His accent is molasses and honey.
I nod, then whisper, “Tomorrow. Sweet Coconut.”
It’s tacky and so outrageous that it’s discreet -- the Sweet Coconut. All burnt-orange bed spreads and Pine-Sol twang, a couple of haggard old palm trees in front.
We shower. Manny feels me up slowly, eyes closed, trembling. I press the small yellow soap between his cheeks, across his chest, under his balls. He is taught and smooth and hard. I tell him no. Not yet.
I open a hamper, hand him a crustless egg salad sandwich, mix a couple of rum & cokes. The boy can’t learn on an empty stomach.
“Now,” I say, climbing onto the bed in a black babydoll and Cinderella Lucite pumps. “Read.” He cracks the spine. Dirty words leap from the page. A month from now he’ll understand them -- after I untangle his tongue and smooth out his diction.
He reads slowly, his twisted words like tantra music. I moan corrections, touch myself to show him. His heavy, dark cock swells against his belly. I take it, spread my lips, lower myself onto him, and the words come tumbling out.