Shared Strokes

I remember the “purely business” attire you wore, like a drape on an Italian statue, not allowing the least bit of your charging, lustful humanism to show. Nervously waiting, reading the newspaper upside down, I buried myself in visions of the wild abandon we’d share once the doors closed to the outside world – we, the strange pair, managing to fit into the environs which never counted on us to even visit, yet each of us stringing a tether of followers and buyers who would kiss the ass of the dangling golden goose to contract with either one of us.

Did our positions drive us together, the myriad visions clinging to us like reputation does to a strip dancer? Did the pressure from that world create the lustful lightning we shared so freely without even the least bit of sharing with each other who we were? Did those demands push us to be wayward lovers in a sea containing the worst and best of dog and bullfights in business? The answers were as elusive as the success we shared in a world not normally responsive to us.
 
We stood out like Bar-B-Qued ribs at a Bar mitzvah, or old soul tunes at a symphony concert. Our dance, you in hot pants and halter top, rubbed the all-too-staid buyers against the grain, but our abilities to produce drew them. They ran to us, practically bowing at our feet, knowing we could make them more money. Did this provide the fuel for our passions’ fire? Did this artificial flavor taste good swirling in our mouths, dancing on our tongues?
 
To watch you peel off your “purely business” attire and expose yourself to me – me, whose three-piece lay at the foot of the bed – was the fruit of our labor. Even in our nakedness we knew little of the other but buried ourselves in the warmth of purity we found within the other's shared circumstance.
 
We fucked liked raving maniacs, striking lightning chords of fire, passing it back and forth like a hot poker. The sweat poured between us, like lava streaming downhill burning all in its path. Our feverish touches and strokes served to ignite more volcanic flows over our submissive bodies, the bed in disarray, most of the coverings fallen to the floor much as we did a time or two.

Even from that background of passionate pooling we kept our secrets. We
did not allow any of our real personal lives to bleed through to the other. This walk in oblivion helped power the lust we shared in hotels scattered around the world, as our schedules would allow. Sometimes we used code names, like “Coal Man” and “Silk Scarf”, when paging the other to arrange a heated tryst. My mind fuzzes trying to recall how long this went on, but I remember every touch you burned me with. I can still see each movement it took for you to uncover that light cocoa body of yours, glowing to a sparkle in my mind. Not one upside down newspaper could out-produce the ravenous news you revealed to my already charged senses. My breathlessness can still be felt; perchance I allowed you a forward position in my mind.

With the habitual refrain, "I'll call you and check my schedule", we walked to catch separate cabs. The honking horns, passing vehicles and general noise of London streets drowned the voices spoken only through our fingertips, saying goodbye for now. This time, as I rode the cab to the airport, I somehow suspected I would not see you again, that our traditional fingered salutation had drawn its last message: Goodbye!