Cherry

Last night at belly dance class in the church basement I danced near the cut-out to the kitchen. The church caretaker is a young man with one withered arm stuck permanently out in front of him bent like a misplaced wing. As I danced in sensual undulating circles coined hip scarf keeping time with the erotic Arabic beat he wiped the kitchen counter and watched me reflected in the glass door of the microwave. He is shy and awkward – sees himself as that disabled boy who is never going to get laid. I’m twice his age but I’m fit, curvy and willing to dance for his pleasure. If I wasn’t a married woman I would take him to the fellowship lounge sit him in one of the big deep armchairs, unzip him, straddle him and pop his aching blood red cherry.