Doug

I’m thinking of what I just wrote about, trying to capture the essence of the image I have. I am thinking of the electrical impulses of the heart, and imagining it beating, each heartbeat full of movement and electricity, and how that the exact emotion contained in each beat changes based on what my eyes are currently looking at, or my brain is currently thinking. So when I see those dead old blinds, with their stark lines and coldness, all the times I’ve been in rooms with those blinds is there in my memory. I remember a time I was in the Crescent apartments, spending the night out, to my great pleasure and triumph. It was 3 am. I was at least stoned, maybe more, I have a suspicion I had consumed alcohol as well. My friend Elizabeth was passed out in one of the twin beds in Doug’s room, and Doug and I were in the other bed, alive with the passion of sex. Doug was tall, with a sharp, large nose and limp, straight brown hair in an unflattering bowl cut. He was well-hung, I still remember that 20 years later. I lie underneath him, and even now I imagine him with sunglasses on even though #1 it was 3 am, and #2 we were indoors with only a faint light from a dimmable stand alone lamp in the corner lighting the room. Pink Floyd was playing, the new Division Bell. We had been discussing it before the conversation stopped with him kissing my lips moist from the Busch light I had just swallowed. I lived for the feeling of warmth and pleasure I felt in my throat and belly as it went down. I put my beer down beside me on the nightstand and he moved his hand to my jawline, gently placing his thumb on my soft cheek. He closed his eyes and moved close into my face. I felt my breath stop as he lapped my lips with his tongue, gently opening a space between them to touch my tongue with his. I closed my eyes and felt it, the slimy, soft goodness of our tongues exploring together, and moving in a dance. My back stiffened as my mouth opened wider to allow him to enter me deeper.

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