tagNon-Erotic PoetryMemories of H

Memories of H

byrusseltrust©

Memories of H By Russel Trust

1. “So, have you ever had sex with another man?” She smiled. How privileged, and powerful, and perfect we felt, having such fun at a blood test. Of course, there was danger there, the possibility, the chance, of an ultimate price for our romance. She looked good, so did I. Interesting, we both dressed up for our blood test.

It was a joy to have her there, as I rolled up my sleeve and they inserted the needle. We were so very much in love, and the woman taking the blood and the nurse holding my hand knew it, paid it a respect in their manners, validated it. We were serious, we were sophisticated, we were two adults blessed by youth, getting a blood test because we slept together, we had sex, we fornicated. Going for a blood test together was probably one of the best dates I ever had. She and I were lucky like that.

2. Sunday morning, the light was blue. It had snowed over night, how odd—wasn’t it Spring?—but who cared? Who cared about outside Brown Hall, who cared about outside the room? Too lazy to even brush teeth; a pack of mints from my jeans pocket to mask the smell and taste, just so we could start kissing again. It was morning but who knew what time and it didn’t matter for how long we had been kissing and playing and who knew or cared how long, the hours, the days. And how long did it take till the perfume of Wintergreen did not mean those tooth-brush free mornings?

3. I would wait for her, face freshly shaved, my pajamas on. The clock ticked later and later. 8:35. 8:47. 8:58. I would sit on the bed, all nicely made, flip through the channels. Get up, put a book in its right place on the shelf. Close a drawer a little tighter. Glance out the window. Sit back down on the bed cover. Rinse and repeat, my pajamas on, a t-shirt and thin pajama bottoms.

When she arrived, she arrived cold and clothed, her lips the temperature of the air outside, her mouth warm, hot. Up the stairs, the curves of her womaness under my hands: hips, bottom, the feel of the fabric of her clothes. It was prudent to greet her so nearly naked; for soon her nude body, on her back, on my bed, and greeting her with the lust and the love of our youth that made the absence of hours an eternity.

4. There was a sort of sanctity to our routine. We would make love the nights she was on duty, sometimes being interrupted during foreplay by her residents, sometimes not during foreplay. Around one o’clock I’d go up to the vending machines, maybe buy a soda, maybe something chocolaty, then we’d go on rounds. Her hips moved so sexily in her jeans, it was always so tempting to grasp her by the hips and waist and pull her close. Brown, with its high ceilings and broad halls, her large staircase—it was a quiet late-night temple to our pleasant domesticity.

5. How many times did I kiss her in the mews? How many times did I kiss her in the middle of the street? Everything was lush in the Spring, the lawns, the trees, our love. We would play games with dandelion gone to seed, she would pluck them and blow them towards me, and I would try to do the same. She usually got the better of me. How we laughed. We were really such children in our play.

6. Sitting on that step, May afternoon in the Village. Critiquing the fashions of the most fashionable people in the most fashionable district in the most fashionable city. Us dressed in cotton clothing. That was love. That’s what I miss most.

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