Riding the Roads

Part I



A Telephone call on a Tuesday



A familiar stranger’s voice on the line

Wants to get reacquainted over coffee and a bumpy ride along city side roads



I consider and contemplate the situation

His voice has the ring of sincerity, a brave attempt to win me.



Could have gotten the sound of a click and a resounding dial tone in his left ear for the effort



I consent to coffee and conversation and commit to nothing.



Besides, what do I have to lose except my self-respect?



Part II



Coffee Shop Conversation and Other Absurdities



We sit in the coffee shop

Across from each other

Him, by the window, the city lights shining over his shoulder

Separated by a silver napkin holder,

My medium one and one decaf

And his steeped tea with half the amount of milk



We discuss my choice of nail polish

It is called Espionage but I don’t think the name is suitable

So

I rename the color Grapesh

He thinks the hue rather Mauvish



It is then that he offers to paint my toenails the same color so my fingernails and toenails will match

What an alluring proposition!

The thought of him bent over my feet carefully stroking my toenails with purple paint

Excites and turns me on.



I think, does he have a foot fetish?

Perhaps his only motive is to get me in a reclining position

With my feet precariously naked, lifted in the air

Waiting for the polish to dry





Part III



Riding the Roads with Dangerous Desires



Sitting beside you, riding in your car



Staring at the black starry eyed darkness thinking of

Strappy sandals with purple painted toenails peeking out





You: concentrate on driving over the pot-holed road

Occasionally you say something silly or otherwise, make a passing comment

Or reach over to turn the radio up an alarming volume.



It is then that you glance at me: quickly, appraisingly.

Sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a questioningly quizzical expression



I sit, warm and full in the heat of your vehicle.

My body heavily heaves at the thought of you reaching over to

Touch my knee, stroke my leg or brush my arm with your long cigarette stained fingers.



I can hardly breathe.

The air is full of the question of sex.

When, where, how?



My favorite part of the evening is when you move your hand to change gears

The way you confidently grasp the stick forward and backward makes me think of something similar



I stare too long

Too comfortable in the silence of sexual thought.



I bite my bottom lip

Debate telling him I want more than conventional sex



I fantasize about him taking what he wants, not asking for it



I imagine us grasped in each others arms rocking together as a boat rocks upon the ocean’s tumultuous waves during a wondrous winter storm



When I think of him I think naughty thoughts which should make me blush

But don’t.



I want to describe my desires to him,

Watching the crimson flood to his serious face

And his bespeckled eyes start with surprise