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This night is no different than the one before the sun has set, but the heat prevails its enveloping presence is all around, permeating my very being… until the heat is all there is, was or ever will be. I lie sprawled upon my bed, feeling utterly boneless like a doll clad only in a flimsy sarong draped loosely around my rounded hips being more an illusion than for true modesty's sake I nestle amongst my mountain of pillows and wriggle in sensuous contentment at the cool and slippery caress of their silken embrace And I dream of far-away places with snow upon the ground and icy mountain streams. But I also have to smile at the folly of my thoughts, for as every true-born African knows - no matter how far we roam or flee the further you go - the louder will be the drumbeat in your blood that feeds the pulse within your core and you will always throb to an African beat I stare up at the ceiling fan that does not cool at all, but rather only stirs the sluggish, moist heat about and I lift up high my tawny mane of hair to free my damp body from the caressing tendrils of my hair And I lick my lips in anticipation as I reach for the glass of icy water waiting near my head this nectar from the gods slips down my throat in an icy cold caress As I hold the glass between my lips I allow a rivulet of cool water to dribble down my throat and I shiver in delight as I watch the little meandering stream flow slowly between the hills of my breasts And my eyes follow its downward journey across my belly, where it hesitates in the pool of my navel before spilling in gleeful abandon through the valley of my hips to soak into the warmness waiting below My searching fingers close over a slippery ice-cube in the glass and I slowly rub it across my neck, my arms and my chest leaving moist, wet trails in its wake In the soft candlelight I watch this valiant ice-cube give up its life in a final caress across my breasts dying in a glittering drop hanging from a puckered peak And with a gurgling laugh I spread my legs upon my bed and offer my body to the heat of the night like a wanton witch of old eagerly awaiting the caress of her pagan lover in the dark. Naomi Pollock March 2001 |
