The Search for Perfection

The Search for Perfection

Mark Coleman 

  As I grew older, my appreciation for a nice pair of legs nearly destroyed me. They were the pillows that I dusted with my dreams. The hat racks that I hung all my spindly thoughts from. I crumpled in on myself to see them better. Huddled down in salutation and prayer. The dimpled ones, the freckled ones, the bruised ones. All long and magnificent. All leading up to that wondrous intersection at the greatest chalice that a man can pour himself into.

  A plump set of cushions to lean into. Perfumed and gripping. Snaked around the hips. Heels resting on the buttocks. Subtle movements to help in insertion and penetration. The rhythm transferred back and forth. A little bluesy when the time for ejaculation comes. Toes dug into the tender rump flesh. A begging there as well as in the eyes, and on the saliva-wet lips. Gorges discovered and conquered. Left, still barren, awaiting the next rainy season. The soothing torrents that will again be shot into that gorgeous body.

  Rounding off with a few finishing thrusts. Lubricated and hot as a Slip ‘N’ Slide to Hell. Working the whiskey out of the pores. Pre-aged and premium. Cask worthy. Hanging, precipitously, on the brim of the nose. Pattering against her drum-taut stomach. Admitted then accidentally repulsed then admitted again. Belly to belly, when a letter of the alphabet can be formed that way. Sleaze and sperm on spring-sharp mattresses. Sometimes a bit of blood mixed in there.

  Burned through by the mere thought of the solace that awaits up there between the thighs. The gaze caressing all that tenderness before your own hands move into your line of vision. Carefully following the voluptuous contours towards the incomparable mound and temple. The worship place for every size of flock. Fleece pushed back from the not-so-hoary head as it takes its cue, and works its muzzle with a smattering of slobber first.

  Arms locked about the knees, smothering them in kiss after kiss. A bit of tongue slipped there then between the nether lips. The side then the tip. Running up and down like a child raised on Fruity Pebbles and crack. An opium lull in the clutch of the womb. Down there where your licks and sucks eased the entry. The clitoris prominent and hard between your thumb and forefinger. Teasing it with carefully timed flicks of the nail. You could set a fob watch or an old grandfather clock by it. Slowly twisting the dial.

  Playing with a crushed wine gnat like it’s a pulled eyelash. Semi-coarse, Dago Red pubic hair beneath a cusped palm. The sun through the blinds unveiling, in its rectangular manner, her glorious feminity. Every goddamn inch of it catching fire and dancing pink. The goose pimples inviting a probe and nip. Roses opening up in the cheeks and sending their color down. The blush ending at the crimson washed big toe. Sitting there, lost in contemplation.

  The sounds in the alley beyond the fogged over, millimeter cracked window. Ghosts playing phantom games of hopscotch or hide the knife in your cousin. Throats drawn open like vulvas. Jugulars spraying out over the brick. Cascading down and rushing towards the ocean. Where the rivers meet their end in the liquid land that is their understanding of eternity and infinity. God in domination and awareness over two-thirds of the planet’s surface.

  Waves tatted down like beams of light to the ankles that massage themselves in clockwise and counter-clockwise motions. The crashing tide deep within the seashell’s memory and heart. Unaware itself whether its knowledge is innate or learned. This constant mimicry that only hammers and door handles can shatter and eliminate. Leaving nothing but a once conjugal bedroom to weather and catch cold.