“A Fistful of Curls/Practicing”, Flash Fiction piece

This was one of those days that, when you think of monogamy and love and all of that kind of bullshit; you suddenly remember, after days, months, or even years of walking around in a haze of babies crying, needing to be fed, held, tucked in; needing a boogeyman eradicated from closed closets that make scary sounds from books or bags tumbling over, wanting to escape confinement; you remember how you got ‘here’.

She looked over at me, and rubbed on my territory just below my centre of gravity; her expression, one of mischief as her eyes widened, a smile forming on her beautiful face.

She hopped off of the bed. My eyes, looking closed, but open just enough to watch her watching me, without her knowing. Sans panties and bra, double-timing on tiptoes as her behind clapped at me, knowingly, teasingly…

Two minutes later, Dope AF came back and stood at the foot of our bed, hands on her womanly physical characteristics that I hadn’t let go of since she first turned her back to me and my lips touched her neck. Her head disappeared beneath the comforter; and like an inchworm with a rotund backside, slithered toward me.

Heat. Soft. Wet.

Her tongue danced to Gregory Isaacs tunes on my morning wood. In between slurps and kisses and ‘mmmm’s’, a free hand ran my shaft as she bounced the head off of her…