Something about Moonlight
I will moonlight to melt your nightgown,
shearing away the shear cream lace
from your cocoa butter-oiled skin,
leaving only our want laid bare
and plain in the pale, made flush and
flesh ripens with readiness,
follicles forced to attention,
energy flowing to the epidermis,
primed to exchange forces
that brought us closer than now,
the point of no return with my fingers
clenching your throat as you implore me
to bite the nape of your neck again
– this time like I mean it – and so
mid-thrust, I lean in and you moan
my name, each moan piling-upon
the last thrust, building a rhythm until
it becomes a chant and percussive covenant
between you and I, building until
you yell my name loudly, impatiently,
shaking me from my moonlit vision…
“Where were you just now?” you ask
between sips of chamomile tea, nearly spilling
it on your makeshift pajama sweatpants.
“I was telling you about the lace negligée I was
going to wear to surprise that jerk Eric before
he dumped me for that bimbo Twyla via text.”
“Sorry about that,” I offer,
adjusting my seat at the foot of your bed,
careful to conceal my erection from you.
“Wanna talk about it?” you ask, adding
“It was weird. You spaced-out and started
mumbling something about moonlight.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I insist.
“You need me. I’m here for you,”
which was true; I am here. For. You.
You continue ruminating about Eric; “I mean,
can you believe that guy? The sad part?
I’m more disappointed than surprised.
I should’ve seen it coming.”
“Sometimes, when the heart is involved,
we only see what we want to see,” I reply,
trying to elude imagining you
in that lacy getup again.
“And Twyla, of all people!” you continue,
spilling tea down your chin as I
resist the urge to lick it off.
“Some friend she turned out to be, right?
She must live to pounce on my table-scraps.
Can you imagine pretending to be a friend
just so you can sneak in on the sly like that?
I mean, how shameless! Who even does that?”
“Lust makes folks do strange things,” I tell you,
offering a napkin for your spilled tea,
now drizzling down the nape of your neck
where I wish you’d implore me
to bite like I meant it. I sigh, adding,
“What can I say? People be trippin’.”
“Not you though,” you assure me with a warm
smile. “I tell you I got dumped, and you’re here
in less than ten minutes, consoling me.
You’ve always been a good friend to me.”
“I’m nothing special,” I deflect,
returning your smile, “but I’d do anything
Written for Real Toads The unreliable narrator prompt, hosted by Björn. As this is one of my favorite tropes to read and write, I had to participate.