Tender Hands of the Seventh Sister

Tender Hands of the Seventh Sister  

     She toys with his zipper like a kitten and a ball of yarn.
“This is my seventh time as your sister. We got a break during
the roaring twenties. But here I am back as your doting sister whose every  
lipstick mark is suspect.”  
     “Our rebirth has not dampened your fascination with my inseam.”  
      She laughs. “Get out of those pants you joker.”  
     “You know when I am in a bull market.”  
     “I can tell when a man’s Nasdaq is on the rise by the look on his face.”  
     “How is the discreet male exposed?”  
     “By that forced smile that says he is trying to hide something.”  
     “I know you’ve got something up your panties because of your  
film noir eyebrow pencil, hot pink lipstick, and scimitar smile that curves  
into dare-me-cheek-dimples.”  
     “I know that you are a bachelor at thirty but married to the stock market.”  
     “I know you are a mademoiselle at thirty-five.”  
     “Yes, and I speak French. But coaxing my brother out of his trousers  
is a greater conquest than putting on a husband’s tie for work.”  
     “You can put my tie on for me too.”  
     She giggles, “Time to shed those dress slacks.”  
     Like the moon seen rising from earth orbit, his derriere ascends  
through the blue pillow covering on its journey into her sisterly clasp.  
Her promise of draping disintegrates into stardust that streaks  
across his orbs under her knowing fingers. His roundness follows  
her strokes like harvest moons swelling into fullness.  
     “Do you like what I am doing to you?”  
     “The sesame seeds of my buns bud under the sun of your hands.”  
     Her hands turn from black velvet warmth to the heat of a  
calypso drummer on fire with the jazz of her musical power over the song  
of his moans. So she ascends into the rhythm of a queen whose  
royalty gives her sovereign might over her brother. And she taps a beat  
on his bottom with the fury of a queen about to declare war. She paints  
his posterior in Flanders poppies for his flesh to remember the triumph  
of her touch over his temptation.  
     “Are you enjoying me?”  
     “My derrière is the muffin whose poppy seeds germinate under  
the heat of your heavenly touch.”  
     “The heart of your manhood is a baklava roll that thickens solely  
from the bounce of my grip on your derriere whose effect  
is known by the profession as the gluteal aphrodisiac.  
If my motions get you turned on in an uncomfortably self-conscious way
just tell me and I’ll tone it down. I am a professional for whom  
such conversations are not the least bit awkward. But you don’t seem  
the least uneasy. In fact, you are following my moves so well all I
can hear is your breathing.”  
     Soon his hips rise and fall like the tides under her caress.  
And the sparks from her touch follow the path from his posterior  
to the realm of magic and wonder of his dreams. Without so much as  
the contact of her fingertips upon his magic wand, her rocking  
of his buttocks takes him over the threshold into a concupiscent joy  
he never expected from her. She pats his nether cheeks lovingly  
while he deep breathes for their mutual happiness.            
     “I am the bread whose wheat you sprout.”  
   “The seat on the paddy wagon reserved for crazy people has my name on it.”  
     “No, you aren’t looney. You are a free spirit.”  
     “Are you headed my way driver man?”  
     “You don’t need a taxi with me behind the wheel.”  
     “Do you remember necking in the back seat of a Model-T when cabs first came out?”  
     “Oh darling, I wish we had been reborn in different families so we could  
make out like we did at the silent movies.”  
     “Honey, I thought I was crazy with all these memories from before this birth.”  
     “Your touch is a ghost from the past that haunts me as the song of mockingbirds  
born in different nests.”  
     “How can we ensure a good season for our grapy souls to reunite on different vines?”  
     “Keep our bottles corked for the virgin label until they reach the vintage age  
to be decanted into the transmigration of spirits.”        
     “Do we visualize Arctic ice to stave the pangs?”  
     “Massage is no sibling vice and friendly to the karmic dice. Traded off it  
is the route to heavenly spice.”  
     “If you were on a train off to war a hot wet sisterly kiss would be  
a sign of affectionate support of the troops.”  
     “The ferocity of your patriotism would make Betsy Ross blush.”  
     “I can’t sew and you aren’t a soldier. But stolen kisses are better than playing  
with your zipper.”