big deal about nothing


Many years ago,
when I was on the cusp
of what some like to call
the "middle-age crazies",
there was this woman,
used to call me up to meet her
at a hot sheet motel in the Bronx
in the middle of the afternoon.
She was a natural blonde
with lovely breasts
and a pretty flower
of a pussy tucked away
in a little nest
of straw colored pubis.
But she had hips
and an ass like a man's;
and she talked
like a man.
Every time I went with her
it was the same thing.
She insisted
on sucking my cock,
before we did anything else.
She would lick it
and kiss it
and suck on it
for what seemed
like hours,
always bringing me
to the edge,
then backing off,
like a formula-one driver
taking a Ferrari through a turn,
accelerating to the point
of losing traction
but not quite;
one with the machine,
feeling everything
it feels.
She would never
let me come in her mouth,
pulling me out
when she was ready
and jerking me off,
flat on my back,
ejaculating
great looping arcs
through the air
and over the foot of the bed.
She would laugh
joyously,
like a little girl
on an Easter egg hunt,
who found what she was looking for
in some suspect shrub.
Then she would make me
eat her
and fuck her
until the afternoon drifted off
on a sea of Bronx twilight.
She was never satisfied.
Afterward, we would lay there
and she would fondle my limp dick
adoringly,
telling me how wonderful it was
and how proud I should be of it
and making a big deal out of it,
as if she wished
it were hers.
"Mother Theresa," I called her,
an odd name for a woman
so much younger than I.


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