simple pleasures

After a night of eating raw fish and dancing with wild abandon, one desires certain final pleasures of the flesh.

I step out of my smoky garb, letting the shimmery black skirt fall first, then the undergarment, I catch it with my toes and with the aim of an expert launch it toward the iron basket that awaits. I lift my arms over my head and tug at the damp fabric, damp from sweat earned in gyrating ecstasy, and rhythmic muscular movement. The simplest of finger-motions and an unlatching of wired support, also removed. Simple. Skin. Nothing.

Eyes closed. Under steaming hot surges of gushing water. Raining down like kind words, not fists, massaging and cradling every inch that is otherwise left to oblivion.