Him
There was Luis a waiter with a Spanish name and a strong Irish accent. A way of saying 'alright' that makes me feel 9. It broke my heart on the last night when I left to go back to my caravan with my grumpy sister and not sneak of into the warmth of Costa Brave camp site night with his chiselled butt. I couldn't sleep at all, my mum gave me the pull out bed in living room myself, the sofa cousins and pillows were piled up and eased the coughing. The Scottish hormone related sweets some how cured by nights as hot as the best of our days. I was perfectly comfortable, except for the lust that moved around my body, healing and waking. He would of known, they usually do. My dreams wrapping around their senses at opportune and inappropriate moments alike.
There was the cook. He worked like a machine, a race horse with hands that sprinted for days. Dark eyes, slight smile lines that went deep and permanent when Spain went one up over Germany. Late one evening I turned the corner to the take away corner, for more chips and burgers and found them leaning against the work tops their body's close strong and tired, their eyes soft. I smiled as sweet and tipped as heavy as I could, then more so when the battleaxe came in and ordered them around with a voice like an injured stray cats mating.
But gave us the opportunity and motive for a kitchen counter lit breathless eye roll that the women he worked with permitted without judging either of out intentions. I will always love her and them for that. His shoulders shrugged and neck as retracted so slightly but plainly as slumped as he ever could be. Then every line in his upper body stretching, basking in the greasy, steamy tourism polluted air. The smiles in the corners of our mouths.
The French kid on the boat, who winked at me after handing over a bowl of Mediterranean snacks, wee man had woken up hungry and happy after his siesta.
Remembering the way sexual desire for women was never so cute, so flirty, never so life affirming. It was always a shadow I tried so hard to catch a glimpse of, so desperate to know but it would only dig deeper until I was grinding my teeth and physically ill at the sight of a tiny thong triangle above a pair of well shaped jeans.
I am less disgusted by my own boobs these days even if other peoples are still a problem.
xXx
There was the cook. He worked like a machine, a race horse with hands that sprinted for days. Dark eyes, slight smile lines that went deep and permanent when Spain went one up over Germany. Late one evening I turned the corner to the take away corner, for more chips and burgers and found them leaning against the work tops their body's close strong and tired, their eyes soft. I smiled as sweet and tipped as heavy as I could, then more so when the battleaxe came in and ordered them around with a voice like an injured stray cats mating.
But gave us the opportunity and motive for a kitchen counter lit breathless eye roll that the women he worked with permitted without judging either of out intentions. I will always love her and them for that. His shoulders shrugged and neck as retracted so slightly but plainly as slumped as he ever could be. Then every line in his upper body stretching, basking in the greasy, steamy tourism polluted air. The smiles in the corners of our mouths.
The French kid on the boat, who winked at me after handing over a bowl of Mediterranean snacks, wee man had woken up hungry and happy after his siesta.
Remembering the way sexual desire for women was never so cute, so flirty, never so life affirming. It was always a shadow I tried so hard to catch a glimpse of, so desperate to know but it would only dig deeper until I was grinding my teeth and physically ill at the sight of a tiny thong triangle above a pair of well shaped jeans.
I am less disgusted by my own boobs these days even if other peoples are still a problem.
xXx
