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Image for the poem hurricane dance

hurricane dance



Saturday night in a downtown club. music heavy &
primitive, scotch just barely affordable.

it was a warm city night, but I was comfortable in my white
shirt. top two buttons undone, cuffs folded half-way up my
forearms. as I contemplated my amber reflection in the whiskey,
my nose detected an exotic scent, brash, like jungle orchids.

my new bar-mate nudged me, accidental-like, but not really. I
glanced her way to do a little reconnaissance on her battle gear:
a silver sheath ending at mid-thigh, exposing naked legs that made
a long lusty trip down to black sandals, that whispered one-night stand.

I made some uninspired remark like ‘hot tonight’; she looked at me
sideways, indicating she didn’t need a weather report. we leaned back
against the bar & studied the dance floor. ‘see anything you like?’ she
said. I looked directly at her sexy body. ‘sure I do. just don’t want to
burn my fingers, is all.’

the music wailed, the dancers danced. after a minute her patience died
in the drumbeats. ‘what are you so polite for? why don’t you just take it.’
was that a slutty invite? my fingers touched her hair lightly, almost not
touching it, like it was the bristling fur of a maneater. then I grabbed a
good fistful of it, tilting her head back.

she squealed, & opened her mouth just enough to suck in air, so I dove
for it like a kamikaze. lips on lips, my tongue snaking defiantly into the
wolf trap of her beautiful mouth. my hand eased down her back & found
her fabulous ass without a tour guide. I squeezed, & her body jerked a little.

she put her hand on my chest, feeling for the savage hairs under my shirt,
maybe. then she shoved me back violently & slapped me hard, stinging
my cheek like a branding iron. her eyes spit hellfire, & she clobbered me
with her brass-knuckled words: ‘don’t ever treat a lady like a whore!’

she stormed off then, a one-woman hurricane.

she was a killer, but she taught me a lesson that I’ll carry for a long while:
never judge a book by its lurid cover. & never ever figure you can read the
poetry in a dame’s heart…


(Art: ‘Exotic Dancer’ by Tyler Robbins)


JohnFeddeler
Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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