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Darlene Jacobsen - Aug 8, 2008 Today is Saturday and still she rises with the sun. It peeks through her bedroom window and lightly brushes her face , gently nudging her and coaxing her awake. She arises, makes a pot of coffee and steps to the front door, looking out towards the east, towards the rising sun. The low clouds are casting a red glow around her. She feels the light’s rays on her tanned face. The fresh air tantalizing her wakefulness, she takes a sip of her coffee and stretches and yawns. She opens the door and sits on her front steps and watches the sun. It comes up faithfully and expects nothing in return. She has on her fluffy baby blue housecoat. It is as soft as a kitten. It brushes against her nipples, giving them reason to stand erect. She reaches in and cups her breast and lightly rubs her nipple. Waking every morning she desires to kill the memories. They flood her brain like the first taste of coffee, bitter but part of the morning routine. The remembrance of him. How many temptations must she go through before she understands the universal truth about life? No matter whatever is happening around you, one must look and act happy. Not to be caught off guard by little inconsistencies which alter reasonable thoughts, she refocuses on the sun. It grounds her. Her hands run through her bed tussled hair. He would like it long. She is growing it longer, because she wants to look more feminine. She has always kept is short and neat, but this summer she wants it long so it will fly free from under the back of her helmet while she rides on her motorbike. Last summer, she heard the motorcycles ride into the small town where she lives. The rumble of the engines called to her, tempting her to feel the freedom of the wind. In the spring, she bought a Harley and now she is learning to ride, alone. Nothing gives her the same feeling that she gets while she rides her bike. She knew she would have to replace the rush of her past lovers with something else. The blast of the bike as it takes off down the highway almost erases her thoughts. She keeps the throttle open cruising past the fields of canola. Yellow has no entitlement to describe any other object after it’s been adored by souls who have been mesmerized by the sheer brilliance of the golden glow arising from the fields. Field after field, decorates the landscape . Every corner and curve revels a new scene, showcasing the yellow oceans set against the backdrop of fresh dewy green. The magic of life floods within her. Her magic worked on him for a while. Her smile, her scent, constructed an allure that was too strong for him to resist. He was mesmerized by her. She was confident. She was on top of the world. Her fantasy man was real. He was a wanderer. A traveler who landed beside her, appearing suddenly during a full moon night, initiating her into strange love games. The man of her dreams attracting her through his knowledge of the secrets of pleasures. Her fantasy world is extremely rich, because reality can be so deceiving, so she keeps her head in the image of those dreams, haunted at night by the memory of his touches. Realizing that she was turned on, and it wont easily be turned off. She reconnects with the sun, returning to daylight and reality. Shaken by her hidden desires she writes to ease and forget. Fulfilling, in the knowing that she can bleed on the paper. It gives meaning to her lust. A place where she can put it all, because her thoughts become clear after she puts them on paper. Thinking it through, analyzing the intuitions that cause the behaviours, in only seeking a safe place to purge the recklessness. Her mind is full of romantic interludes. She craves to share them with someone who will take the time to entice her appetite. Seeking to find a spot where it can be stored without shame, so it can be explored without mercy. Its about what drives her to this newfound place of passion, where the riches and luxuries of sexual generations speak to her through her fingertips. Synesthesia, capturing the sounds of the sexual encounter in a tin box, to be released upon command. Listening for footsteps that echo down the back stairwell as a lovers met for a stolen moment. The shifting of bodies to shh the echoing sounds of passion from the barren walls. Pumping and positioning, bracing and thrusting, licking, sweating bodies embroiled in lust that is bent over one another giving and receiving pure ecstasy. She wants to recall the moments that she saw his eyes roll in passion, his mouth parting with desire, his cock hard and strong enough to withstand the wells of yearning. The moans of desperation in not wanting the moment to end. It sometimes becomes more than her mind can take, so she escapes back to reality. Quietly writing it down, memory by memory.
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