Alone on my deck, surrounded by the quiet goings-on of my neighborhood, I revel in the erotic perceptions of sensory contrapositions. The sun massages its heat into my skin while the salt-chill breeze leaves it cool to the touch. Perspiration sheens my bare flesh while the ice water glass held against my neck sweats chilling drips. The towel beneath me shifts – rough-worn and terry soft – as I change position.
I am secluded, but not.
Secure in the knowledge that I am visible from below only through the second-story porch railing – and only if someone is *really* looking – the exhibitionist in me thrills to the impish impulse thrumming through my veins.
A glance through half-closed sunglass-shaded eyes telegraphs the information my inner Good Girl needs to grant herself permission: None of my immediate neighbors are working in their yards; traffic is light; the lilac sentinel obscures the view from the side.
Oh yes, I can.
Dipping one hand beneath the bottom band and twirling my bikini ties with the other, I butterfly my thighs, draping my knees over the side arms of the chair, and revel in the sensual juxtapositions.
Pink nails tipping tan fingers.
Dark curls against white skin.
Translucent wet flowing between the flushed pout of aroused flesh.
Contrast against contrast against constrast.
Molasses strokes over lightning heat.
Cool penetration through molten resistance.
The contradictory conformity of pleasure.
Desperate desire and reluctant concession tango and twirl in an eternity that lasts only moments. And then…
finally, so soon
– amid the re-animation of residential bustle,
I feel the weighted tension explode into gravity-less free-fall.
THIS, she thinks, is what a grain of sand must feel when it becomes glass.