This morning he has me straddling his lap while he is sitting in the breakfast nook.

I wear a short satin robe, but barely, as Kevin has already loosened the sash and opened it so he can play with my breasts. He has big hands, but not large enough to encircle them. I like the idea I am too much for him, even as I know it’s not true. He lays out his flat palm under them, lifting up and letting them fall and bounce.

I am his toy doll, only life-sized and made of flesh not latex. Barbie’s third cousin perhaps, the dark and sinful one with red hair and flashing eyes, the one pulled from the assembly line because she wasn’t perfect, exceeding the variances, too anatomically explicit, suggesting thirst and desire too scandalous for a normal doll.

My arms rest on his shoulders and my hands stretch behind his neck. I look into his eyes as he plays with me. He kisses me, savoring my lips, my taste, my presence in his life. Kevin is a smart man. He knows the unusualness of these moments, this time with me. A man does not get this, not like this, in a lifetime. I am his dream, not because I am a perfect Barbie, but because I am not. Because I exceed variances. Because by this strange confluence of events, I am available to him, completely, without complication.

I like that I am this for him. Later I will sort out my feelings about love-making without love, or how being passionately fucked makes me adore him, or why being played with like a toy feels so insanely lovely. In another time I will long for him and wonder if, as I drive away, he gives me another thought.

But not now. I will gladly open myself up to these luscious moments with him.

He cups my right breast from the front, like he his gripping one of those massive doorknobs in the center of the door to an English mansion.

And soon he will enter my rooms.

4 thoughts on “morning

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