Xanadu

I danced with him while he danced alone.
Asian.
Buzz cut black hair.
A bit shorter than me, and thin.

His attire:
Shirtless in lo-rise, spray-on jeans,
Showed off his tattoos:
An Egyptian Eye,
An elaborate belly tattoo that sank below the waist
And a leafy vine that circumnavigated him
Along the lines of a jock strap.

Kinesthesia synesthesia:

I arranged my attention
So that sight and sound always entered
From their own defined directions.

I locked hearing on my left ear
And sight on my dominant right eye.
My internal dialog fell away as I fully engaged the now.

Sensitizing my feet to the floor,
My hands to what I might express,
And my head to its location in space,
My dancing began:
Vocalizing chords I heard in the song
And answering with motion the smorgasbord of sights.

Though my gaze only sometimes included him
He was always in mind. Always a part of my dance.

Occasionally, I would focus totally on him
And explore various
Perfect moments of desire.

First rid him of his pants and footwear
Leaving him clad only in his tattoos
Not even hair to obscure them.

Would he most strongly respond
To a feather-light fingertip graze
Up his sides,
Into his armpits,
Down his back,
Below the waist,
Along the crack
And entering?

Or maybe something stronger:
A slow steady crescendo
Of a pinch-tug-release on the nipples?

Or would he most respect,
A hand grasping his sack and tender orbs.
Slowly tightening
Each time he nods his head
Until he sheds a tear?

I intend to find out.


	4 April 2005
	by Bill Cattey