He. {poetry}
{source}
Riding on his motorcycle,
My hands clasped across his heart,
I can feel the strength in his chest,
The rhythmic pumping and thumping… of him.
It excites me.
Each stoplight
He reaches back around to me,
Stroking my leg, from ankle to thigh.
I like it.
I catch myself hoping we hit every red light along the way.
Stop, let me feel you… feel me.
Red, yellow, green, go…
Don’t stop…
Or… wait?…
Caution, I can see red flags all around.
But, I’m re-learning to touch and be touched.
Red flags,
Red lights,
And all.
It’s a quick lesson,
Being behind him,
Hugged-up tight,
My nipples pressed against his back,
On this vibrating,
Grinding, growling,
Throttling… machine.
Here, in this helmeted disguise,
Discovering two wheels are really quite grounding.
I make note, I need a set of my own.
Turning my attention back to my body,
I resettle myself along his.
Tuck myself back into him.
And, grit my teeth a little with want…
We take the curve,
It’s easy and smooth.
Leaning together,
Bodies in fluid motion, like one unit.
Once the road opens up,
I get a little past my shyness,
Get brave even, for me…
I run my hands all over him
It’s good, like petting a wild cat.
Instantly, I want to do it more.
I forget the road for a moment,
Get in my head a little, get stuck there…
And immediately, I want back in my body.
Just then he reaches back around to me…
To my thigh; he caresses me, squeezes, then lets go.
His gesture makes it clear, he senses my mind when I leave.
He can feel my headiness.
And he counters it with affection.
I laugh to myself
With nervous excitement at this discovery…
He really tunes in,
And like no other.
I blush behind my helmet.
I’m smiling.
But, no one can see my grin…
Inside that deep, dark helmet,
The one that’s far too big for me to wear,
The one he so kindly fastened for me,
Took care and time to secure,
And didn’t even laugh later at my helmet hair.
Even I didn’t care.
That was the day I realized I liked afternoon sex,
Naked in the mid-afternoon light,
Draped like curtains over one another,
Spent, smothered in sweet sex.
Yes, that is for me.
And, he taught me that.
An eagle flies above,
I fall back into my body,
And begin to stroke his once again,
From his helmet all the way to his bootstrapped pants,
And everywhere in between,
Deliberate and deep.
It’s a new kind of ache,
This need for contact and connection.
Sometimes it all feels too much…
To feel feelings… like those.
But, he knows
Just when to prompt me to talk
Without being pushy.
He coaxes me, gently.
Gives me room to come easily into my own expression.
Encourages, and even finds just the right words for me,
Finishing my sentences,
When he sees I’ve gotten in too deep,
And cannot bear even to say my own words.
It happens.
And he eases those moments.
He doesn’t leave me feeling embarrassed
When my lips start to quiver
Just before I almost cry.
He’s subtle and cool like that.
I get lost in his attention.
It melts me
The way he observes me
Without making me feel watched.
It’s beneath his gaze,
That I feel sexier than I’ve ever felt before.
When he’s intent on me,
Like a little boy with his new toy,
I nearly fall too modest to even enjoy.
But, I’m re-learning to touch and be touched.
And for the sake of saying it,
It moves me, his way with me.
He’s learned the difference between my quiet sad
And my quiet mad.
How does he even know?
“I deserve this pleasure!” I tell myself.
“So, liberate yourself and be free,
And enjoy his company.”
Still he goes through my mind on repeat.
He mixes up my head,
Staggers out my energy,
And confuses my sensibilities.
But, somehow… still…
He settles my soul.
When I wait to hear from him…
When I wait to feel him…
When I wait to see him smile at me from behind his front door…
We hang out in his garage,
It’s where I’d rather be…
There, where it always feels like 9 o’clock,
On a Saturday night,
Somewhere in 1984.
He stirs all the things I’ve been running from.
Yet heals me a little more…
Each and every time he touches me,
Roping me in some more.
Core to core,
The engine roars…
I love it when he rolls up on me,
Or waves to me from afar…
When he glides his hands all along my body…
Let him be…
That excited boy with his new toy.
He’s practice for me
On how to re-connect.
He’s a life-preserver.
My buoy.
My heart-shaped rock.
He’s careful with me though,
Genuine, slow and easy.
And, he’s on my mind.
All over my mind.
Mapping out every desire, wished or wanted.
And weighing more now upon my cares than I had ever intended.
I had rules for this, you know.
But, we’ve broken them all,
Both he and I.
Together, in his Saturday-night garage.
He’s taken his place
Along the sharpest ridges of my broken heart.
A position of his own choosing.
But still he knows
We’re forever free to come and go.
We haven’t labels nor titles,
Only benefits…
Bound within long-standing friendship.
And, he knows
My brokenness is sharp.
But, still, here he rides with me.
The wind shifts,
Blowing along our bodies,
Cutting evenly through the spaces between us.
Jagged-limbed trees line the walk
And shadow the peripheral
Along gutters and downspouts,
Flushing and gushing over blackened asphalt,
Leaves and specks of earthen dirt and much less…
They all go whizzing by,
Then quietly begin to settle again.
I love it.
The speed
The wild-wooded air.
And me…
With him.
I caught feelings,
Where they were never supposed to be.
I assured myself so.
But, he surprised me,
And so… here we ride.
The road looks much different
With my arms across his heart.
The sky has its eye on me.
On both him and I.
We. The pair of us.
As if to say:
“So here you are, my dear.
A hand at love has passed your way,
It’s solid and true,
But faulted to ruin.
It’s yours to play.
Do just as you please.
Just pick up your own pieces,
When they shatter at the end —
Because you saw, as well as I,
Red flags in all the all.”
I stare out through my helmet,
Lift my visor,
Arch my back,
Angle my neck to see around his broad shoulders,
All just to gaze upon his forearms,
I watch the veins in his arms as he throttles and brakes.
Strength and skill will feed any woman’s attraction.
Wanting his arms wrapped around me,
I fantasize,
I want off this bike
And onto him.
We turn the corner toward a block.
I think of returning home,
Imagining the prison there I’ve built for myself,
Suddenly, it looks so very bleak…
A bottomless bore.
How do I now return to my self-imposed sentence,
When a run at love stands to be had?
Short run, red flags and all…
It is all so much better than my hell.
Sinking and swimming inside my own thinking,
Evolving into this peculiar wonder of a semi-grown woman. Opening the door ever-so-quietly to connection,
But only just a crack…
“Give it a run,” my mind says.
He feels my confusion,
He dusts it off,
Squeezes my thigh,
Winks and smiles at me.
Like I said,
He’s cool like that.
The only text I look to see is his,
His simple “Hey.”
It’s true, I like it way too much.
He gets that less is more,
And leaves me to imagine him
More often than I care or prefer to say.
I don’t like being teased…
Give me what you’ve offered me,
And don’t make me wait.
He leans in to listen to me.
Did I ever mention that?
It’s the sexiest thing ever.
I can’t even hold back.
He gets me out of my head.
And moves me into my body.
He celebrates my silly and my sexy.
Breathing life into my sexuality,
He turns me over from one emotion to another.
Taking me from girl to woman.
And back again.
Against him, I feel wildly out of control.
Am I animal, woman or whore?
I don’t even care,
I only want more.
What is this cruel joke God has played on me?
Because even here, as I sit, I already know…
There is no shadow of a doubt,
Beyond, and without so much as a single question…
It’s a gamble, love is…
In dangerous tides,
To run with one wilder than you.
But here I am, running toward and with…
One wilder than myself,
Red flags and all.
Still, I throw caution to the wind, now,
And decide that, once and for all,
He’s welcome to break my heart,
If, first, he can get to it.
My body he had at “Hey,”
But my heart
Comes late,
If ever at all.
***
Raquel LeBaudour is a proud mother, stumbling writer and poet — a lover of words and wisdom handed down. Passionate about music — especially reggae, nature, the moon, trees and leaves, and her very own hand-painted rocks. Her message, though channeled at times through dark and somewhat dismal avenues, is always nothing but one of great love. Artistic, earthy and wildly analytical, she is a ‘soul-opreneur creative’ at heart, working away at her best designs from the inside out.
***
{Join us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram & Pinterest}
Comments
Latest posts by Rebelle Society (see all)
- Cemetery of Tears. - November 5, 2024
- My Identity Journey: What’s in a Name? - November 5, 2024
- Cyprus: A Magic Place That Feels Like Home. - November 5, 2024