Homeward Bound

The January breezes of South Beach have been left behind (white sand and bronze breasts). Homeward bound, I am. Jane awaits me at home, snuggled under the quilt Kathleen made, spread wide with anticipation, wet in all the right places. I know this because before I stepped on this plane, my Blackberry announced this fact. She is showered, fresh, waiting, willing, the wanton slut she is.

Last night we had phone sex. I was in my hotel room, windows closed to the street below. She was in my bed, which se seems to have decided she’ll use whenever I’m not home. We chatted for a good twenty or thirty minutes before falling into some old pattern – talking about what we’ll do tonight when I get home. Her breathing became quicker as she touched herself, legs splayed wide. I could see it in my mind’s eye, her voice painting the picture for me. My breathing became quicker as I pulled at myself, hard and hot in my hand, slippery from the hotel’s lemongrass sage lotion; I was tingling. We came together, copper wire and fiber optics connecting us, the miles between us reduced to nothing.

When I dropped the phone into the cradle beside the bed, I had trouble focusing my eyes in the still unfamiliar room. Art deco. And, I couldn’t think of Jane, the woman carrying my yet-to-be-born son, a friend and lover, but not my love. Instead, I could only think of Alex -- who would have fit with the art deco furnishings of the room, her flapper, pin-up, sophisticated self melding with the reds and woods of the room -- and of Amy – her innocence and her “I’ve got confidence” which would have played well in my arms. Alex, who would appeal to my sense of rescue. Amy, who would satisfy my Madonna/Whore complex.

And, no, in my mind’s eye it wasn’t both of them together, but rather an either/or -- each to satisfy a different need, each to have a different need satisfied.

In my heart, however, I know whether Amy or Alex, and I’d be playing with fire.

Need I say I like the flames?