Fierce Debutante Escapes Soup Kitchen Row

Fierce Debutante Escapes Soup Kitchen Row
        
      I joke with her in the dining hall about going solo in the game of love. She smiles like I’ve said the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Our group living affords us little privacy but much laughter. Rowena’s hair is black as the ace of spades with big hazel eyes which if you stare into them long enough become hypnotist crystals. Tall as a girl who grew up on homegrown corn, fresh milk from the cow, and where tomatoes are eaten straight off the vine, she is a down-on-her-luck city girl with farm-girl hospitality.        
     I find myself alone in my room stripping down for a shower. I hear a knock on the door and upon opening it am greeted by her smiling face. She is clad in only a bathrobe as she takes the initiative to step in without the usual, “May I come in?”        
     “Let’s do our morning calisthenics together with a new twist.”        
     “Knowing you this new leaf must be sensual.”        
     “Since we’ve already seen each other naked this should come as no surprise.”        
     “You want to do stretches nude? That will give a new heat to warm-ups. I’ll need your help because these dawn awakenings leave me sleepy to the point of dreaming.”        
     “Get undressed and I’ll be your coach.”        
     “I’m bare as your wife in the shower with you. And pleased you have joined me in the au-natural state.”        
     “I’ll be your exoskeleton to press against your back.”        
     “You’ve popped a woody on my derrière. But I am too tired to properly react.”        
     “Go with my flow. Bend with me at your waist. Now I’ll hug you and be your stretching partner as you rise.”        
     “I’m so exhausted I can’t stand straight.”        
     “No worries I’ll hold your arms up to complete your stretch.”        
     “I’m exercised enough unless you want to introduce aerobics to the mix.”        
     “Breathe deep and I’ll get you there.”        
     “If coffee was a contact sport this is how it would feel.”        
     I suspend her by her hands like a string of chili peppers at the bazaar. Her bottom shakes while I pull her into the taut form of her body flexed for gymnast elegance. Her muscles are both physical and emotional as she moans with trapezoids undulating. But her burning pepper dance subtly turns into the sweetness of figs hanging from a string at the souk. The roundness of her Calimyrna is a supple testament to her desires. And her derriere grows hard when she squeezes like the concentrated sugar of the fig.        
     Rowena sashays in saying, “Rise and shine boy.”    
     “You look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”    
     “It is Sunday morning which means we got to sleep late. It also signifies that the staff is absorbed in watching the church services on TV.”    
    “That signifies privacy however fleeting.”    
     She says, “Hey, you silly boy, as your female friend it would be cruel of me to tease you and leave you to your own devices. So if your emotional weather permits, let me be your break in the clouds of this New Orleans rain.”        
     She slips out of her terry cloth robe and strips me of the last vestige of my modesty. We sink to the floor together and my left hand plucks the strings of her Sitar while my right hand adjusts that tuning peg which is unique to women to the desired pitch. Then her voice vibrates with the classic chords of a woman deep in pleasure. We struggle like wrestlers in a love match. Her moans deepen into those of a Tibetan monk’s chant. Then she catches her breath until the door swings open. We are caught. She throws her caftan on and darts out like an escapee on the run.        
     Her assigned seat at the table is occupied by a different resident that night and her absence is like an open wound. I seek her in the room she called home but now must leave. In my hand is a silver dollar with Valentino’s image engraved on one side. When I approach her she is shaken almost crying. I hand her the coin which she takes but my gift does little to assuage her anger.        
     “I haven’t felt such passion with a woman ever.”        
     She replies, “Wow, so I was that good? Thank        
God, something good came out of this in spite of me having to return to my dysfunctional family.”        
     I reply, “What other kind of family is there?”        
     “How could you make a joke out of my predicament? You took advantage of my naiveté. Do you really think your token gestures will make a difference at this point? I have to pack now.”        
    I reply, “This was consensual.”        
     She replies, “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation now. Can’t you see I’m shocked?        
Can’t this wait until the hurt is less fresh?”        
     I say, “I love you.”        
     She replies, “Here is my yoga doll. Take this to remember me by.” I accept her gift of the figurine with legs in the full lotus pose. Then she smiles like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. She says, “But I want Mr. Yoga back when we get into those supervised apartments where what goes on in other folk’s apartments is their business and we will have real queen-sized beds instead of these single ones. That carpet chafed my bottom.”        
     Then her balding father steps in and looks at us from across the bed. “Why didn’t you two do it on the bed instead of the floor?”        
     When her father carries her TV to the car she tells me, “Now, do you see what I mean by a dysfunctional family? What kind of father says something like that to his daughter?”        
     I reply, “He was probably just concerned about you getting rug burn.”        
     She says, “You men always stick together.”        
     She blows me a kiss and totes a suitcase out the door and into a future where we will surely meet again.