Make Love

I remember when you and I first made love. I should say that this was not the first time you and I had “sex”. We’d done it a number of times before. I remember the first time we made love. It was after that Stoppard play we went to see. For the life of me I don’t remember it, but I remember how inexplicably aroused we both were—despite the fact we couldn’t stop talking about the play all the way back to my apartment in North Van.1

I remember trying to grasp your breasts a few times as we sped through the destitute ashen lights that make up the East Side. You were wearing that little satin number that used to drive me into a feral lust. I certainly couldn’t resist pawing at you a bit. Should have known better when you were driving, but what’s life without a little peril?2

“Please don’t kill us,” you said with an aroused glower.
You really did like it though. You teasingly slapped me away, sometimes a little too hard. It just made me want to caress those minute Everests all the more. But I gave up eventually and settled my unworthy, horny, sweating paw on your dancer’s thigh the rest of the drive. You were no saint yourself of course. You kissed my neck with a craze at every red light down Georgia (and right onto the Lion’s Gate). Your curls would catch a halo every time a car drove by and shone on us with holy high beams…a little satanic red halo around your face (is your hair still red? You were dazzling in red).3

When we made it to my place I lifted you into my arms before you could leap out of the Chevy. There’s nothing like holding you. And I don’t mean that as a former lover. I mean it as a friend, casual acquaintance, enemy, pervert, et cetera. The only words I can give the feeling are that it’s akin to being frozen and boiled in the same moment, but with a celestial sense of well being embracing your heart (and mine).4

Finally managing to dance/tango up to my bedroom, your skirt was half torn off, my good white dress shirt lost its collar and my dog was locked in the bathroom all in one sexually charged, twenty-second action.5

“You’re fast,” you said.6

“We’re fast,”7

“In more ways than you think.”8

“Don’t blow my confidence.”9

I seized a random record from the shelf and clumsily slapped it into the hi-fi as I watched you divinely tear down to your delicates. And as Satchmo cheerfully pointed out Mack the Knife sauntering by us, you took my virginity and flogged it with ecstasy. Yes, physically it was taken when I was 18, but that night you finally killed it. Slaughtered it without mercy. May it burn in Hell.10