His name is Lucian.
He says sea tuttles and rolls his r’s.
His eyes are like butterflies fluttering across the tops of our heads. He licks his lips compulsively.
He is shy and tired. He remarks how he’s been talking all day. And in a foreign language no less - but no one hears that part because he doesn’t say it.
His right eyebrow raises unbeknownst to him. Along with the right side of his upper lip.
His eyes rest every now and then on the older gentleman with wispy white hair and coke bottle aviators sitting in the first row.
His eyes are soft and big. His eyebrows, dusted on caterpillars, weight his lids with age. His eyelashes are delicate shields guarding the man within.
He has a strong jaw. And smile lines that guide the loops of his nostrils to the corners of his lips. His lips. They don’t intrude, they don’t assume. They know timing is everything, firm and strong, but caring. His top lip, almost blends into his olive skin tone - native blood peeking through in undertones of red.
His bottom lip, characterized in hundreds of vertical lines sewn tight from the sun, but full and pulsing.
He nervously strokes himself, his hands I mean.
His neck, freckled ever so slightly in beauty marks.
I want him to smile - his cheeks cave in such a way when he speaks, I know there’s a dimple or two just dying to tickle my fancy.
His chin is square. His nose is curled from nostril to point.
He wears a baseball hat. It says fallen and ashy grey hair peeks out like a dust ruffle right above his dark brown almost black hair. But that’s besides the point, he looks like a baseball player to me - lean and firm. I imagine him in a baseball uniform. There’s something about a man in uniform. He wears a puffy yellow jacket. His hands look photoshopped in - his size small wrists sit on the very edge of the XL yellow puffy jacket sleeve.
His under eyes cave slightly but they aren’t dark. His skin glows caramel, and is sweeter in the sun. No crows feet, though worry lines worry their way underneath his ballcap.
His neck is long for a man, and so smooth. My lips long to dance across
it. I wonder if he’d smile. If he’d wink his dimples at my caress.
His eyes just caught mine! Or I probably caught his. He ran. But I think, instead, what happened was he just traced the indent in between my legs with his wise, strong, full fingers. He watched my face as he pleasured me, the right side of his mouth, that lip, raised and a dimple peeked. my heart raced and I blushed, my smile slipping my secrets. Maybe it was half a second. Maybe it was less.
(I’ve come back to the bus)
He wears a “keep California green” t shirt. And these off green kinda brown corduroy pants. His arms are slim and lean. His hands are workers and veiny, but soft. His fingers…. Tracing outlines, teasing, filling…
His shoulders cutting into his shirt as he turns, talking to the 23 year old freckled thing in front of me to the right. He leans in to hear her, careful to direct his face away quickly, so as not to attract the approval of her father.
His face is older than he is.
His eyes are dark and full of the stories his skin tells, so contradictingly.
If only he’d undress me with his eyes… Undress my eyes with his, hear my stories, my stow away secrets. Oh god how I want to make that lip curl up, those eyes drop when he’s being modest, comforted by his eyelashes.
I want him not modest. I want him proud. Proudly undressing me with his eyes, proudly tracing my body with his eyelashes, proudly tasting the gold in the sand color of my skin, inhaling my warmth…
I think he knows…
I think he knows I’ve begun this affair with his body. I’m seducing him, the only way I know how. Silently. Secretly.
He must be keeping conversation with the sprite confident divorcee in front of me just keep from…
Well, getting hard.
I know he must. Must be fighting it. Like I’m fighting the blush in my cheeks - my mom looking over at my fingers typing away - like I’m fighting to keep my hips from girating, like I’m fighting the impulse to push pause and glide to the front of the bus, slowly press my body against his - slowly so our hairs touch first, then our skin, then our bodies, moving together.
Slowly I lean in and let my lips whisper their caress against his earlobes, and trace his strong jaw, and slide down his neck. Slowly my fingertips start at his knee and tip toe their way up to the ever expanding bulge in the center… Fingertips to palm, I wave my hand over it, finger tips to palm. My lips still dancing across the ballroom that is his neck, and jaw, and….
The bus stops. Just as I was working my way to his lips, it seems I pressed fast forward and not pause. My mom sitting beside me passive aggressive because I wouldn’t tell her what I was writing. And Lucian, telling everyone to have a good day with his second language lips.
I have the impulse to show him what I’ve written. But where is the practicality in that plan? Rather where is the reality. And maybe it’s better this way. A place so real and still a fantasy.
Oh Lucian. Lucian.
(2 days later, I’m back in the bus)
I sit in the first row
And he stands before me.
I look up at his eyes as if stalking prey. His lips are moving and I hear his strong shy Spanish accented effort ex English, but all I am thinking is…
“I wonder if he’s imagining me on my knees before him…”
you’re just a body
you’re just a body with a face and a name
And by you’re I mean I’m
Sometimes my hands are just warm and they just touch you
Sometimes my lips are just soft and they kiss you
Sometimes my voice sounds nice
And I’m used to that
I’m used to not being seen
You just happen to be them
and I just happen to want you
and maybe I can thank my father for that
and maybe I don’t really give a fuck
because the truth is
Now, I’m somebody’s something.
and I’m seen.
And I’m bright
And I’m better
And I’m a person and life attached to a body.
The best way I can love you is by not losing myself in you, but growing with you.
Navin E. (via elige)
‘Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I’m gazing at a distant star,’ I said. ‘It’s dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago. Maybe the star doesn’t even exist anymore. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.’
Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun (via childoflust)
vardaesque: polmos: Salvador Dali Taking His Anteater for a Walk, Paris 1969 Salvador Dali Not Giving A Single Fuck, Paris 1969