Post by goldenmyst on Sept 1, 2022 21:07:32 GMT -6
Psych Hospital Funk
Bewildered by life, I land in an asylum for those of a delicate nature. Our healing village is down by the levee in New Orleans. I am deep in Psyche hospital funk.
We are refugees wandering the no man’s land between the smoking ruins of an adolescence whose home we can never return to and the offer of asylum in an adulthood whose customs are so strange.
Sonja faces me and like the earth embracing the sun, she draws a circle around me.
Sonja doesn’t need women’s magazines to learn the secret language of men. She got on-the-job training in the sweatshops of romance. She is well versed in bat winks and lip pouts of the luna moth hypnotism of sunbeam delight.
She tells me, “John, with you it is all Zen. I don’t have to plan my next move, just be in the present.”
“Oh prophet of midnight dreams, do not hunch with a crooked back. Stand straight and touch the sky” she tells me.
Sonja says, “John you look like you need a pool workout to get those endorphins pumping. Put on your bathing suit and let the good times roll.”
I reply, “Let’s do our laps side by side.”
Sonja asks, “Do I need to change into my bikini or can I just wear my lingerie?”
I answer, “Since it is the Fourth of July you can celebrate in your intimate apparel.”
At the poolside Sonja slips out of her skirt and blouse leaving only her panties and bra for covering. We do homage to our amphibian ancestors by returning to the water where once we were sea dragons spying fish in the depths.
The azure water bathes us under the turquoise sky that casts sunbeams and shadows like the stained glass in our church of mind opening. Sonja and I swim like otters under the roof of heaven. Sonja’s face blushes like a McIntosh but I am the fruit ready to be picked.
Sonja tells me, “John, saddle the buoy which is your aquatic horse but toward the back.” The buoy feels like the place where time and space collide.
I tell Sonja, “Sit in front of me on this horse. You will be my buoy lass.”
Sonja replies, “That sounds kind of personal. Are you sure this is legit?”
I reply, “The beauty of this is the intimate healing of touch. Don’t worry, just go with the flow.” Sonja mounts our plastic pony and pushes her derriere into a snug fit with me.
Like a ruby-throated finch, Sonja serenades me with a song of laughter as she bucks like a bareback rodeo rider. Her wet body pounds my thighs with the supple gold of a woman teaching me to swim in foreign waters. Yet my rocking horse is a friend that I am loath to give up.
Sonja grabs the bull by the horns by jiggling our horse with madhouse glee. Sonja’s seesaw makes the cotton of my swim trunks into a wet cocoon.
Sonja gasps, “John you are poking me through your bottoms. I didn’t anticipate this.”
I reply, “Do not be a prisoner to your fears. Just ride with me.”
“There is nothing weird about a young man’s arousal,” she incantates.
I tell her, “I am nearing the climactic scene in this opera.”
Sonja gasps “Oh my Lordy. John, I won’t deny your fulfillment.”
I reply, “I am already there. Sonja, do you want to switch positions.”
Sonja, “That sounds like a reasonable pose. In fact, I am feeling the need for reciprocity at this moment.” Her poise is a propitious position. “My, your glutes are as hard as your love muscle. I need you to write the libretto for my Carmensque opera.”
I ask Sonja, “Where do you want to honeymoon?”
“You mean with my hypothetical groom I presume? At the beach is your answer and in a tent.”
“Would you like an air mattress or a foam pad?”
“Air! All your subtexts are making my freaking head spin! Improv suits you or should I say us?”
Bewildered by life, I land in an asylum for those of a delicate nature. Our healing village is down by the levee in New Orleans. I am deep in Psyche hospital funk.
We are refugees wandering the no man’s land between the smoking ruins of an adolescence whose home we can never return to and the offer of asylum in an adulthood whose customs are so strange.
Sonja faces me and like the earth embracing the sun, she draws a circle around me.
Sonja doesn’t need women’s magazines to learn the secret language of men. She got on-the-job training in the sweatshops of romance. She is well versed in bat winks and lip pouts of the luna moth hypnotism of sunbeam delight.
She tells me, “John, with you it is all Zen. I don’t have to plan my next move, just be in the present.”
“Oh prophet of midnight dreams, do not hunch with a crooked back. Stand straight and touch the sky” she tells me.
Sonja says, “John you look like you need a pool workout to get those endorphins pumping. Put on your bathing suit and let the good times roll.”
I reply, “Let’s do our laps side by side.”
Sonja asks, “Do I need to change into my bikini or can I just wear my lingerie?”
I answer, “Since it is the Fourth of July you can celebrate in your intimate apparel.”
At the poolside Sonja slips out of her skirt and blouse leaving only her panties and bra for covering. We do homage to our amphibian ancestors by returning to the water where once we were sea dragons spying fish in the depths.
The azure water bathes us under the turquoise sky that casts sunbeams and shadows like the stained glass in our church of mind opening. Sonja and I swim like otters under the roof of heaven. Sonja’s face blushes like a McIntosh but I am the fruit ready to be picked.
Sonja tells me, “John, saddle the buoy which is your aquatic horse but toward the back.” The buoy feels like the place where time and space collide.
I tell Sonja, “Sit in front of me on this horse. You will be my buoy lass.”
Sonja replies, “That sounds kind of personal. Are you sure this is legit?”
I reply, “The beauty of this is the intimate healing of touch. Don’t worry, just go with the flow.” Sonja mounts our plastic pony and pushes her derriere into a snug fit with me.
Like a ruby-throated finch, Sonja serenades me with a song of laughter as she bucks like a bareback rodeo rider. Her wet body pounds my thighs with the supple gold of a woman teaching me to swim in foreign waters. Yet my rocking horse is a friend that I am loath to give up.
Sonja grabs the bull by the horns by jiggling our horse with madhouse glee. Sonja’s seesaw makes the cotton of my swim trunks into a wet cocoon.
Sonja gasps, “John you are poking me through your bottoms. I didn’t anticipate this.”
I reply, “Do not be a prisoner to your fears. Just ride with me.”
“There is nothing weird about a young man’s arousal,” she incantates.
I tell her, “I am nearing the climactic scene in this opera.”
Sonja gasps “Oh my Lordy. John, I won’t deny your fulfillment.”
I reply, “I am already there. Sonja, do you want to switch positions.”
Sonja, “That sounds like a reasonable pose. In fact, I am feeling the need for reciprocity at this moment.” Her poise is a propitious position. “My, your glutes are as hard as your love muscle. I need you to write the libretto for my Carmensque opera.”
I ask Sonja, “Where do you want to honeymoon?”
“You mean with my hypothetical groom I presume? At the beach is your answer and in a tent.”
“Would you like an air mattress or a foam pad?”
“Air! All your subtexts are making my freaking head spin! Improv suits you or should I say us?”
