A Morning Drive (erotica)

   The smell of sex had not only filled the room he had just left, but remained on his clothing, his flesh; and he was sure it was such the same case with her. What does sex smell like? It is a mingling of juices flowing with the atmosphere of the place where it was had. You can rent a cheap motel room, buy some cheap wine, a couple of roasted chickens, get naked, and fuck on a bare mattress. You can have it elegant with every possible accoutrement down to the hot tub and room service, but the scent of sex, good sex, will stay with you. It will stay in your nose. It will stay on your flesh.

   And you will be caught in an endless loop of those moments you had. You will have flashes in your mind, and pulses will re-run through your body. If you are a man, you will feel your cock grow every time you recreate the scene (and you will). If you are a woman, you will feel your juices flow when you don't want them to. But you do want them to flow. Your nerves will tingle away, your body will thrum, and you will drop every fucking important thing you are looking at so you can go back there.

   Flesh pressing upon flesh, indeed. The lips, the spit, the sweat, the engorged nipples, the engorged penis. Hands on ass. Fingernails running down backs. The rhythms that are only made in coupling; making the beast with two backs.

   And such was how he found himself now, again. His cock was hard, and warmed from the hot leather seat of the Cadillac, driving now, as he was, to work. He wanted to pull off the road and masturbate; to have her over and over and over again in his mind.

   It is the most beautiful kind of all the mind- films because, if it was good, it will last forever—longer than a CD, he thought—and they say you can play those a million times with no wear.

   Sex never degenerates—good sex. If anything, it grows harder and stronger and occludes all else that you think to be more important.

   He was thinking about her on top of him, her hips bucking, pushing him in that strange animal rhythm, speeding up and slowing down yet all at one time. He was thinking about when he finally threw her off him and pinned her arms down. She let him, with something like a moan, but you never know what kind of moan that is, do you? He was thinking about his tongue running from around the back of her ear, down the nape of her neck, down between her breasts (pausing left and right to lightly pinch and lick her nipples) and then to her pussy, arriving to that singular, sweet taste and touch-- his tongue and fingers. Rising up, mounting her, dancing with her to that slow habanera rhythm—the slow Spanish fuck, slow but accelerating its way to the final crescendo. Disconnect. Clinging and scratching. Shaking together and watching reality shake with them.

   Breathing the atmosphere of the room. The intermingling of the colognes. The way the coffee tasted so differently, so much better, in the morning. The way the lights flashed. That morning, on his way out, he caught sight of an old black and white film playing on the television, volume mute. Looked like some kind of romance, he could see that, but what he also found was that all of it was invading him in some kind of much sharper, electrified manner—like the coffee had.

   Distracted now. He thought of her, and figured she was probably also in the hot funk of it, hours later though it was. He thought of what he would do upon their next meeting. Where to start? Where would she start? Would he dump a bottle of almond oil on her, top-to-bottom, and start licking, and sticking fingers, and grinding his hips at her, so she would, in turn, make the unique jazz? Once more, that Latin jazz, the slow, elegant-but-raw rhythm of coupling—coupling of energy, of souls, of sweat, of what is, in the end, raw heat . . .

  

  It would be difficult to concentrate on anything else. Perhaps he would buy her a flower and a chocolate, during lunch. Maybe, after lunch, he would indeed return--to her.