Eat It

Jane Eaton Hamilton From:   Church Wellesley Review, Sept., 1996.

The beat is red, red. You're so slippery. You say, Honey, squeeze me but the music spins me from your hands. I watch you, cerise flickers winking the mouth of your tuxedo. My skirt is up, up, up and I am happy. Dance me hard, I say, and you do. I combed my hair a hundred times. I wanted to know what it would be like to be a cha–cha sweetheart, with kohl lines under my eyes and glitter on my cheeks catching the light. Inside I am sticky. You pull me between your legs like some red hot delectable and then my hips are scissoring. I'm wet with salt and lickables. Later you'll taste me. Later you'll unpin my black bra and snap my garters in your teeth. Your eyes are so hot they're melting, dripping nude stares over my shoulder blades. And below. As I spin out. As my heels staccato the dance floor. It doesn't get any better than this, you say, and you're right. But then it does. It goes dewy like the red souls of virgins. It goes sleazy. We're smoking up the cha–cha like a slow fire. I dance blind and wild and you're moving me, you show me where to hold it back, where to let it go. Take me down, I say. Your hands slide on to my hips, flashy and suggestive. I don't touch you; I lean back, away, arching, my breasts high, letting you. Your red wet mouth invites. Eat it. Eat it up. I want to. You smell like anything raw. Tell me something, honey, you say and I spill it all into your arms, all the one, two, cha–cha–cha my legs have known. I furl it out, moaning it like wind. The ache, the dirty sugar, the bruised fruit. Do it, I tell you and everything loosens. Do it harder, I say and I'm spinning like a streak. I'm so dizzy. On my cheek, an ice-blue sparkle yields and strobes out above the floor.

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Jane Eaton Hamilton's works copyright © to the author.