Peach Juice Rolling down my Chin
Three o'clock in the morning and it's quiet. For once. The room next door is not rock and rolling and Goku's soft snores are welcome change to the golden tones of 'oh baby suck yo big daddy.' Isn't that just the perfect lyrics to a love song?
I miss romance. Miss the wooing, taking pen to paper for words that stroke that erogenous zone between the ears but most of all I miss the reason why I did it all. Kanan is..... and the..sigh... my former hiding place is next door basking in the after glow of a horizontal hootenanny.
So I'm laying here in the darkness alone in a single bed with a snoring monkey 4 feet away.
The soft pat pat of foot falls scampered by my door, a knock on the timbers and a respectful voice announcing tea and custard was ready for his holiness. Amazing, even at this hour people are wiling to do the most inconvenientent things for Sanzo-sama, even knowing the half naked man in the room with him is not receiving his absolutions but then again you never know. Spirituality gets injected into us at the oddest of times.
And speaking of oddest times....ahhh sex, when romance gives way to the more physical aspect of the eternal dance. Where the curve of their hip, the subtle line of cheek bone and the merest touch of a finger energizes a flurry of steps, a twist turn and very low dip. Oh my, look at that...so it appears one must take matters into hand for a singular flight of fancy.
Funny things you think of during a solo dance; bean custard was never really a favorite of mine and certainly not after sex. Peaches, those were my darling weakness. They seemed to be just an extention of the act itself, an extra flourish of steps. Soft, supple velvety skin, a cleft that you press your thumbs into to part the lips of soft, juicy flesh. The sweet juice rolling down the chin with each long lushious lick. The center, now that is a bit of contradiction. Hard and dry yet pregnet with the possibility of life. The place where sprung the Peach Boy, small in stature but mighy in attitude. Just like other things.
Coffee, nice at breakfast and tea is lovely with dinner, personally I find bubble tea more condusive to digestion at lunch, but Shaozingjiu is what is on the night table to entertain a lover as I am a bit of a traditionalist. The sweeter brew, warmed to body temperature and sipped from thimble cups with the heat flowing from throat to all points of the body. Oh my that does warm things up a bit, I'm fluttering my fan like Miss Scarlet from 'Gone with the Wind'.
Cigarettes, well now that is a guilty little secret. I did smoke from time to time. The need was like an echoing distant memory, a bit of DNA craving or a carry over need from a past life. But the feel of that smooth fragrent cylindrcal body between my fingers, smooth and phalic, brought back the automatic reflex of a seasoned smoker; the smooth practiced flash of a lighter, the ease of kissing light to leaf and motions of field stripping the butt when the last spark died away . But the poison of choise aren't those nasty cowboy killers Goyjo inhales, oh no it's the kretek cigarettes that were my smoky meat. The marvelous blend of clove and tobacco would go crawling panther like into my lungs and provide the incence at the temple gate of passion.
But too soon the dance is over, I've tripped the little fantastic and am now sticky and sweaty as most dancers are when the night music ends. My sole steps have been quiet, not even the squeek or thump of the bed to accompany the silent notes racing through my brain. The taste to reach my tongue is a drop of myself; hints of salt, a sweet/sour finishes with a hint of bitterness.
How so like me.