Kubla Khan

His pen is from India, or China, exotic like his skin, a symbol of his one-ness with the world.
It's cool. It's hip. Like him.
He twirls it, its cap and the cheap plastic, urban consumerism, and it dances across his artfully chapped lips.
He's thinking. Thoughts...
Of what?
I'm not privy to his depth.
Of post-colonial Caribbean literature...
Of gender – Feminism – of righteousness and justice...
Of post-race.
Of New York. Of tired and weary souls.
He wears the weight of the world's woes in his beaten-up messenger bag.
His lips, pursed, suck thoughtfully, consciously, on the pen.
His lips purse thoughtlessly, spontaneously, onto my perfectly painted lips.
A flash. A spark. No candles, just dark.
Fumbling.
Lips. His are heavy with justice. Mine – what do mine taste like? Clove cigarettes. Strawberry lip balm.
Pesto sauce.
Martha Stewart.
A snarl of passion as we surrender to sweet desires. Tongues – darting. Swirling. Exploring. Probing.
I want to consume him and his post-consumerist ideology.
My nails – French manicure – graze the coarse dark curls on his body. Back. Chest.
A skinny mountain man in my bed.
Hot breath on my neck.
He smells like musk.
He tastes like marijuana. And coriander.
The herb-y spice-y scent takes me back to Egypt.
He succeeds in one liberation struggle, finally, as he haphazardly frees my breasts from their lacy black shackles.
I gasp. His teeth, my nipples. They join in melodious song. He grazes them, nibbles them, until they're Russia-red and listening at rapt attention.
A smirk.
My eyelids prefer their dormant position. He forces them wide.
"You don't even know how beautiful you are."
His Che beard tickles my torso. Rough. Like the ying to my yan, rubbing steel wool against my porcelain skin.
Sweet torture.
My skirt, simple A-line, tossed to the floor like yesterday's laundry.
Panties. Faded jeans, ripped artfully at the seams. Ironic boxers, mismatched socks.
The discarded shells of our external personalities lie in a jumble.
We are tangled.
We are one, a hot, heaving, writhing mass of lovemaking. We paw and claw our way into each other.
Lips. Hands. Dick. Snatch.
"Snatch?" He grins honey-slow. I have dropped my June Cleaver persona.
A lady in the street, my ass.
His cock throbs with its youthful fullness, but he is a Sex God. He is no impatient teenager.
It as if we have coupled for millennium. We are Zeus and Hera, Adam and Eve, Vishnu and Lakshmi, the first lovers, the last lovers.
It is just us.
Sweat and hot breath. His shaft tickles each sweet spot of my insides. I feel him down to my toes.
Faster.
Our lovemaking has a sense of urgency. This is no languid exploration.
Fingers to my clit as he nibbles the fleshyness of my earlobe.
I am a guest on his wild ride. An inhabitant of his stately pleasure dome. His princess in his erotic paradise.
My orgasm sneaks up on me as if it were a whisper, a secret.
"Bring me there."
He obliges.
Waves of heat intermingle with my four senses. I am delirious as he rams my insides. His fingers dance across my clit.
"Yes!"
His pen, twirling across his lips, ceases its rhythmic journey.
"Yes?" My professor asks, jumping on any form of classroom participation.
It was a dream?
I murmur something – the political is personal – as my face blushes to match my skirt.
He laughs. And winks.
And thoughts of my pleasure-dome recede into the distance.