Thursday, October 07, 2010


(That old Flannel Shirt You Loved So Much)

I remember your trembling fingers touching
my face as you laughed at my inept fumbling
of your shirt buttons, blowing a gust of warm
breath into my mouth. God, even your breath

tasted good…sweet. You were older by five years and
world weary, but steady, your solidity anchored me to the damp blanket we were
laying on in the cold basement of your parent’s home. My face flushed
crimson with arousal and

virginal embarrassment. I gave up trying to free your breasts from
the flannel shirt you stole from my closet. Closing my eyes I sank deeper
into your kiss. A soul kiss, you called it, and your warm, soft
tongue was wet fire in my mouth. You were recently separated

from your alcoholic husband and I was the 19 year old notch on
your bedpost – a conquest to make you feel in control
for once. My schoolboy innocence and inexperience made me uncomplicated
and willing. I had no idea what I was doing and that suited you

just fine as you pushed my head down your belly toward your open thighs. Your fingers gently gripping clumps of my
curly auburn hair, steering me toward every important curve and crevice of your
young fragrant body. I was so nervous I barely remembered what happened next

except that it seemed to be over so fast. It was disappointing that the hype didn’t
seem to match the event. You wrapped your arms tightly around me and pressed my head against your breasts still swaddled in flannel. “Remember what I said,” you laughed gently, “No heroics my young lover.

Later that night you crawled through my open window wearing nothing
but my old flannel shirt you seemed to love so much. Your legs and your ass were
scratched bloody from the rosebushes outside. You curled crawled in under the
covers next to me, drawing my arms around you. You cried yourself quietly to sleep,
your tears flowing down from your eyes and on to my cheek.

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