I need my whiskey straight & my hair pulled.
I walk the back alleys to The Retreat, the scent of honeysuckle hanging sweet in the air and the hand of desire pressing heavy on my belly. I’m a greedy girl and I need much tonight; a slide guitar, ice cubes cracking against a thick glass, a mouth on the curve of my neck.
Most of all, I need hands.
I push my way out to the beer garden and stand to the side til the noise no longer jars. Dark eyed girls with hunger know to keep to the shadows, to slide against walls where they won’t notice your burn and won’t question your gaze. And I can feast on the wrists to my hot little heart’s content.
I forget to look up when their sleeves end. A slender wristbone with a swirl of dark hair; his fingers hold promise but the cigarette makes my lip curl and my eyes wander. This one has succulent fingertips and my teeth ache to bite them, until I notice they’re cupped around a Bacardi Breezer. And it’s watermelon.
I trace a circuit around the beer garden, and I don’t look up. My desire isn’t wanton and the rules keep me wary; no nail polish, no thumbnails grown long by swaggering musicians, no nails slid into nervous mouths, no pale band of flesh hidden from the sun by a wedding ring, slipped into a pocket before the car door shuts.
A man in a cowboy hat is in the corner where the honeysuckle hangs low, and I watch him crushing sprigs between fingers and thumb. Long, ripe fingers without rings, without shame, and without me. I slide my eyes to the wrist and I know, I know, I can already taste him. The curve of bone holds a sprinkling of black hair and when I get closer I see strands of grey. My tongue slides between my teeth. I want to bite down & my chest hurts & I need so much right now that I can’t remember my own name.
I wonder how long it’s polite to talk before I can circle my fingers around his wrist and bring it to my greedy mouth, before I can slide one rounded finger under my tongue.
Where it belongs.
Summer nights make me hungry.