Gumbo

You’re cooking some gumbo, standing in front of the stove. I’m in your den checking out your books. Jazz plays. It’s a beautiful, cool evening, and the windows are open to let in the purple breezes. We’re making small talk while you cook. I come into the kitchen and lean on the counter. I’m watching you. You can feel it. I ask where I can find a glass. You point to the cupboard above you. I lean over you and get each of us an elegant wine glass. While leaning, I brush against you softly. I smell the gumbo mixing with your perfume. After pouring you some wine, I fill my own glass and stand closer to you while you cook. You have to get into the silverware drawer for a big spoon, and I’m in front of it. Our bodies brush together again. Now we’re not talking. There’s an awkward electricity in the air. You silently stir the gumbo, waiting.

I set my wine glass down. Out of the corner of your eye you see me coming closer. Your heart quickens. I touch the back of your neck softly. A thrill goes through you. Now I lean down and kiss the soft skin there. You don’t know what to say or do, so you keep stirring. A little shiver runs through you. Now you feel my hand at your waist, pressing softly. I’m urging you to turn. You do so, and our eyes meet. We are face-to-face, me smiling, you a little apprehensive. I bring my lips to yours and kiss you. You are stiff for a moment – after all, it’s only our nineteenth date – but my hand slides over your back and urges you, oh so softly, to come to me. You open your mouth slightly and begin returning the kiss. Now you allow your body to relax and we come together, two bodies melting into one. You bring your hand to my back and signal that the kiss, the gumbo, and the evening are all perfect.

We break away after a few moments. Just a brief glance into each other’s eyes before I smile and turn away. You watch me head back to the den, your body rubbery, yet buzzing with excitement. You turn back to the gumbo and wonder how you’ll ever get through dinner in the state you’re in. Back in the den, I have a book open in front of me, but I’m not reading.

Turning off the stove, you slip into the bathroom and freshen your makeup. Still shaky from our kiss, you make a daring decision. You quietly enter your bedroom and close the door. You open the third drawer of the dresser. There lies the blue lace negligee you’ve been saving for a special occasion. This very occasion. Feeling strangely intoxicated, you put on the negligee.

In the den, I’ve pulled out most of your books from the bookcase and have them lying in front of me, on the coffee table, on the couch, and spread out over the floor. I’m engrossed in one particular book. I’m looking at the pictures in it.

You quietly enter the den and watch me read for a few moments. I don’t know you’re there. You see the book I’m holding. It’s one that you know by heart.

“One fish, two fish,” you purr. I look up, surprised. My eyes move over your body, drinking in the soft curves beneath the flimsy fabric.

“Red fish, blue fish,” you whisper. Your lips, now tinged slightly pink, move slowly, pouting each word with a sex-charged flourish. “Black fish, blue fish…”

The worn copy of Dr. Suess drops from my hands. You’ve got my attention.

“Old fish, new fish,” I say in a deep voice. A sly smile from you.

“This one has a little star.” Now I’m standing, edging towards you. Your heart beats strong, anticipating.

Now both of us speak, together, our lips inches apart. “This one has a little car.”

Silence. That tingle. You feel the whiskey heat of my body as I gaze into your eyes. You’re thrilled, scared, excited.

I kiss you, soft, my lips questioning. You answer with a low moan and allow yourself to be gently pushed back onto the pile of books. You feel the corner of a weighty tome pushing into your back, but you don’t care. One of my hands strokes your neck. I kiss you there. You allow it. My other hand slides across your smooth flesh. The hotness of my breath wafts down through the top of your negligee as I kiss across your warming throat. My stubble is rough on your skin – a tantalizing coarseness that causes you to shift beneath me, not away, but to accommodate. Two swellings from beneath the thin, blue fabric of your negligee betray your excitement. You feel my hand moving toward your most sensitive place. A sudden intake of breath as I touch you where you most want to be touched.

“You smell wonderful,” I whisper.

“It’s Midnight,” you gasp, as a liquid shudder rips through you. My large, masculine hands have found the source of your desire. You move your hips in response, pushing, opening, wanting more.

I jump up suddenly. “Midnight! It’s really that late?”

You lie there, shamefully sprawled across your books. You instinctively cover yourself. “Oh. No, no, no! The perfume. It’s called “Midnight!” The cool air makes you aware that tiny beads of sweat dot your forehead.

“I should go,” I say.

You’re in a bit of a daze. Unfulfilled, in a state of excitement, but feeling the evening suddenly closing. A small panic arises in you.

“You don’t have to go.”

I put on one of my shoes. “Gosh. I feel ashamed. We had the hundred date rule, remember? This is only our nineteenth.” I point to the large calendar on your den wall, with its huge black X’s imprisoning each Friday and Saturday, going back to our very first meeting. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t a gentleman tonight. The way you said “fish,” and, well, the way you were looking at me, I just couldn’t help myself. I’m so glad you stopped us.”

You stand. Your body is shaking from both unrequited passion and the night breeze through your scanty attire. “We made the rules. We can change them.” You step over the pile of books and approach me.

I back away from you. “Dear. We shouldn’t rush into things. I want to respect you.”

You keep moving towards me. There’s fire in your eyes, and fire, hot fire, where it most matters. It needs to be extinguished. “I’ll show you how to respect me. Right now. Tonight.”

I continue to back away. “Darling, let’s be cautious. I have to go now.” I grab my pruning shears and hoe from near the door, where I’d left them after working on your rosebushes. As I’m turning to leave, you pull my shoulder and spin me to face you. I stand stiffly, surprised. The tools drop, clattering, to the floor. You put your hand to the back of my head and pull me to you. A hard kiss. Your hot tongue pushes against my lips, forcing entry. My resolve weakens.

“Come with me!” you say. It’s not a request – it’s a command. You take my hand and lead me back towards the den of knowledge. I follow, reluctant, but afraid to protest. As I watch your body moving catlike beneath sheer lace, I become aware of an urgent, longing hunger deep inside me.

“Is that gumbo done yet?” I ask.