City night, a café and you.

I sip from a bottle’s cold, glass top, feeling the dew cling to the base of the bottle tall as I press to my lips. I am searching for the deepest, amber speck in each of your golden-brown eyes, as if they are prisms holding an answer to all questions I seek. Or, to find a reason to not consider you at all.

Sitting across, your bourbon neat not enjoyed by a young man, but by a man who has seen the badder side of the world, with the look of blue, as blue-black as the city once the night sky falls.

Truth - I desire to know what it would be to touch you, feel the muscles across your back with my fingertips, how they feel when warm and cool combine as one, tracing down the line, the side, feeling me in between your thighs when I am caged in you like a pet, when your muscles flex and I grab your chest. Studying, deciding… Me deciding on you, trying to smell your plans, smell you, and that musk of perspiration you are wanting me to lick off, later on. You’re going to make me feel all the pain inside of you, but you will be sweet throughout it all.

“I’m married. He is all I know.” Me finding it comforting to be sure about someone in heart, so near, dear, when once I thought too late, for me, too late to understand if compassion exists at all. “We can only talk, I cannot touch you,” feeling the tension of his trueness, his reasons, and what tied to his heart might truly involve.

More truth - How long have you been caressing me, I don’t know. You thinking which position to put me in as your first move to make me fall in love. You’re not supposed to be touching me. Please don’t stop.

You remind me you are here, you are right, and it is beyond turning around, to let you go.

“I know you married. Don’t worry, mami. I am bi, I like both. I will love him, too, if that is all you need, ask,” gesturing with the wave of his hand, and a laugh out loud.

Aye yai yai… That’s not an answer, my eyes blushing, me smiling, only making you grin more.

“My Baptist preacher’s daughter married to a Sephardic Jew, I love you so much. I like your husband, too. He’s cute," continuing with smiles to each ear, he explains, “And, now, all the way from Israel, Portugal, to in between, to Mexico, to here, by way of Brooklyn, by way of Arkansas, by way of Tennessee, your Israeli-Arab soldier, too.” He gives that massive smile that makes one smile and glow from deep within.

He persists, “I’ll be anything you want, your lover, your husband, your brother, your son… I will be everything to you. To fill your heart, Queen of my heart,”

And you continue…

“You let me in, ma, and maybe I can be your God for you to pray to every night, on your knees, later on.”

You already touching my knee, and around the outer part of my knee, sliding behind and up the line that divides my knees both. And you, with your Cheshire grin smiling back bold.

Your youth, it is shielded in arrogance and tenderness, undisturbed before broken by someone you trust. And yours has been broken already, yes. How do we piece together if I am still in pain, you are shattered, the mix of two, how do we place so many pieces together, back in a space where those pieces were meant to have grown.

Truth - You craft your words when you say each of your words to me, lovingly, assertively. I wonder how anyone cannot let you be anything but you, it would be simpler to gift wrap gravity on earth, sending it to another part of this universe.

You grab my hand from me and cradle it in your palm.

“I will have you and have him, too. But, I have to be with you alone, too. There are things… Things I need from you, taboo,” he whispers, kind of, in this tiny café holding us two.

“Only you… You know, ma,” placing the heavy part of his accent, matter-of-fact and without question, on every first and third syllable, in twos.

“Stop.” I insist, sort of.

More truth - Yes, I know, Prince.

You rise, rearrange, reposition our table, your chair, the room, placing yourself within air closer than we share.

“Hmph… You like when I speak to you. How I speak to you. How slowly I speak to you… Hmm?” Admiring his choice in me, looking at his hand on my hand that is now resting on my upper hip, and how much he will enjoy showing me all of him, later on. “You are so… Respectful. I like that about you. But, I think you tell me when I am too much… Ma.” He clarifies further with the range of his voice deepening, “I want you to scream when I am too much, ma, understand?”

You forgot the word “always”… Always, I like, when you speak to me, Prince. Your Sephardic Egyptian gaze from Yemen to Haifa, those eyes. Historic, stoic ancestry and pride while reciting prayers from Shabbat into lyrical hymns for those who have chosen to follow you to their end. I am aware of these prayers, my Prince. And I will follow you.

“You have a King, Prince. You… You a powerful woman, you…” Selling me on all his ideas, when all he wants me to do is to submit to him, have me to himself, alone, locked forever, and within the control of his steel arms.

A city blanketed in haze and the bluest part of black. You, me, in a café. Not far from him and his pulse, him waiting to know if you and I will decide to change everything in only a moment of thought.

You lean back in your chair with your bourbon, swallowing the last drop.

In the undercurrent of his darker mood and tone, “I will be with you, neshama sheli, habibti, ma. This I know. You know it, too. Because you are the perfect blue, holding onto more blue than the sky and ocean combined, but, with a cast of light. My light. I will help you see your light again,” he says. “You helped me, I help you. Okay, ma?” He humbly drops his eyes and kisses my palm.

Truth - I only hope to have helped you, how could I leave you to be alone when you were at your saddest, my love, a troubled, heroic prince from another world.

You lean in closer to my left bicep, pressing against my left breast, your arm is a pressure that makes softness felt. A troubling excitement I feel from ankle to wrist, reciting in my left ear a fantasy you wish to act out, describing me sitting in the passenger side of a convertible we’re driving in, later on,
In the night,
Driving along a coastline,
Dark lacing prisms from,
Occasional,
Front headlights.
Your hand lifting my sheer skirt,
Of strawberry blush,
Whipped layers.
Watching me grab,
Me,
Just at that point,
Where curves intersect with,
Moonlight.
And you not watching the road,
Telling me how,
Tonight,
How hard,
You will fuck me into the night, and,
How much to please you,
Throughout the night,
Because, otherwise,
It will break your heart,
To have to teach me,
Another way to behave,
While tied up for you into the night.
A moody, highway lullaby heard over,
Iridescent goosebumps,
Spreading across,
Plump part of,
Where the moon kisses,
Cherry pink sun,
And when,
My heart skips into my pulse.
You gripping my hand,
Making me feel the thickest part of,
Your cock,
Dripping,
Hard into the night,
Sliding up and wrapping my fist to,
The right degree of,
Tension,
Telling me to take my panties off.
Mad I decided to dress underneath,
When you already told me not to tonight.
I know, Prince.
I planned it that way,
Hoping to gain your attention,
In a way that…

“Tie them around your wrist…” He says.

When you would say that,
Command,
In the deepest register,
Your throat goes.
You pull the slack tight,
With one grip,
Pull me to you,
Begging me to,
To do to you,
With my mouth,
What my pussy will do,
Later on,
Into our night,
“Mami, please…”

When you beg me like that,
Before we get to the end of the road,
Not slowing down,
Into the night.
I feel your firm,
Inner most thighs,
In my palms,
Tied tight,
Balancing myself,
Between you.
In the background,
A quiet city of blue and black,
Humming in,
’56 507 BMW,
Lighter than dark, breezes across an indigo black, holding cruise in fourth, pressed sharp and constant into my right rib cage and breast, with your hand running through my hair, holding tight, the Baja air kisses my neck, your face, my bare waste to ankle, slipping between my… And your hand grabbing on my… And all of our naked parts, glowing in salt, night-blue, sweat and southern air.