TOUCHMEDONOTTOUCHMEIAMALIVE

Sunday, August 16, 1970

Fig. 009

I'm three shots of rum in. Foreign rum from a tall shot glass. Rum that kicks you so hard in the face that you can only shed a tear and ask for more. She is lying on the bed, surrounded by an ocean of comforters and hand-knit blankets. She is beautiful. The colors of the blankets become an aura of sorts, or a border that will properly display her for all that she is worth. I lie down next to her. It is only then that I realize the lights are off. I am at a loss as to how such a blatant trait of the room has gone unnoticed. I turn over. Our face are close. Close in the sense that they are touching. That close. I can feel her hair on the side of my face, attempting to tangle itself with my recently shortened beard. The hair has nothing to work with, and so it tickles my face to show its anger. Her lips are slightly below mine. I've been looking at them all night. Longing for them. I use my nose to push her nose and bring our lips together. Fireworks. A typical cliche, but the only way I could possibly explain it. The rum did not prompt this. We prompted this. The rum just gave me the guts. Thank God for rum. It's not long before hands are under clothing, exploring new places. Her nipples are that small, soft type that I love. They resemble a the feel of a balloon that's exterior has been raised due to suction. If you cannot imagine it then I can only pity you. Shirts are gone. Ok, all the clothes are gone. A messy heap on the floor that won't be bothered until morning. And away we go. Later she has her head buried into my chest. It concerns me that she may be immovable. I eventually fall asleep.