Fantasizing Underwater


The first time I fantasized about a man,

I was fifteen,

warm and weighted down

with chlorine from my pool,

Hormones raging

and rebelling under the sun.

Mid-july.

Mid-puberty.

I bobbed up and down,

as if I were a buoy in salty waters.

A tube-top too easy to slip off

in a heat wave.

Bikini-bottom too small

for a growing asset.

Can he feel it?

My tingling flesh?

I watched him stir-fry hot peppers.

Sizzle chicken.

Mingle onions,

handling food with tan hands,

while I clenched the concrete ledge,

allowing sweat to run into the water,

ripple, vibrate,

and disappear into reflective ringlets of

sunlight-filled H2O.

I did canon balls just for him.

Adjusted my swimsuit,

dropped my soaking wet towel for

his firefly green eyes,

sinking into me.

Underwater, flickering,

they penetrated the surface

and entered my

aquatic dreamsicle.

He licked away at my sinfulness.

Every mutual glance.

My cheeks,

ruby like blood-filled lips,

redder than my sunburned shoulders,

and I held my breath

as internal lust bubbled up.

No one else could pop them,

make them come alive.

Only Carlos.

Spanish. Foreign.

A stranger to lay in bed with or

skinny dip with.

No talking.

Just zip his lips

and

unzip.

Walking mature fingers,

index and middle,

trailing them up and down

my sun-kissed,

pink skin.

And at this family reunion,

I wanted the caterer,

inappropriate,

but right for my body,

ripe.

Right now.

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