Doing Lunch

we study deep tissue burns

and i stir at the way

that small gold cross

and chain,

accentuates

the soft area between

your breasts

as you lecture

in the late morning.

we break for lunch

and i meet you

in the hall way,

your brown eyes

and smile

capture my soul

and take

my breath away...

you always have that effect.

in your locked office

i release your hair tie

and your beautiful mane

cascades

as we lock in

heart pounding embrace

starched blouse, skirt

and bra,

quickly removed

you lie back

on the carpet

and beakon me

to lie above you.

in the tangle

of heated embrace

those small white

panties

become the first casuality

as you arch to

tear them off

and cast them

to some

forgotten place.

in growing moment

i kiss your neck

and the smell

of expensive soap

and flowers

fills my world

as you reach to find me

and guide me,

raising your knees

as i enter...

you are warm, wet and delicate.

i rise and fall above you

as that scarlet rash

we often joke about

appears once more

in the soft area

between each breast,

i know that when both sides

meet

you will

cry out my name.

i know you are close

but the distractions

are multitude,

and yet you are

so very near

I gently reach down

and guide your

right hand

there...

between us

you look into my eyes

as if seeking permission,

i kiss you deeply and force down.

the rash spreads

and touches

as you arch your back

and raise your legs high

while i smother your mouth

with mine

to quieten the sobs,

and all the while

vivaldi

plays in my head

from some distant corner

of your office.

later, i kiss away the tears

as you

look up into my eyes

and whisper

'thank you'

we quickly gather our strewn

possessions

and dress,

with no time left

to shower,

and it takes so damned long

to find that hair tie.

in the early afternoon

we study penetrating

gunshot wounds

and i stir at the way

that small gold cross

and chain

accentuates

the soft area between

your breasts

as you lecture

the rash

quietly fades

back

into the outer reaches

of your camisole

and beneath

that expensive soap

and smell of flowers,

i know that

you my lover

are still...

so very

warm and damp.

(c) Mike Subritzky 2001

'Judith Rose Passion Study'