It was the most perfect imperfect day. Earlier on, we had failed miserably at trying to have shower sex. A card had been slipped under our door notifying us of an electric fault that was being repaired. It meant that if we wanted to shower, we would have to make do with a cold one. It must have been the eagerness of getting to know each other. Or the excitement of being in a beautiful location together. Or the wine we had sipped during breakfast. One or all of these things convinced us that a cold shower wouldn’t be so bad. Afterall, we had each other and a host of prurient thoughts between us.
It was terrible. A shrieky, giggly affair. If those are words. None of us wanted to take on the cold water first of let it hit both of us. She would scream and curse if even a single drop of cold water touched her chocolate skin. It seems like a clumsy introduction to her skin. But try as I might, I doubt I’d do it justice. It was beautiful. A tapestry rich with stories. She had pointed at the remains of her battles with acne, the scars that were fond reminders of an adventurous childhood. I knew the story behind every scar, spot and mark. I hadn’t thought skin could be that interesting. I am getting carried away. We had tried turning off the shower and leaning against the wall to fool around. That didn’t work either. The tiles were just as cold as the water. Further, without the steady stream of water, it just felt like awkward standing up sex. With the hugest bed ever in the other room, it made no sense.
The rest of the day was just as imperfect. A knock had interrupted her as she almost made my eyes roll backwards. Another cliche. But I can explain. I had cursed every curse word that I knew and even invented new ones. I felt spoilt. On the receiving end of attention from her hands, lips, tongue, even hair. I hadn’t known dreadlocks could be that handy. She had brought me to the edge so many times then pulled back each and every time. I was certain I would die when she finally allowed me over the edge. She was about to when the knock came. I nearly choked on my saliva cursing. It had been the hotel staff. Letting us know that the electricity supply had been restored. It was to a steady stream of hot water and her insistent tongue that I finally came. It took everything in me not to crumple into a pile of contentment on the bathroom floor. She had to carry me back to bed.
Now, Ella Fitzgerald’s voice was filling the room. As her larger than life voice sung that she was bewitched, bothered and bewildered, I was tempted to sing along. I could relate. The setting sun rendered the sky shimmery, gold, pink and orange. The reflection that the sky had painted on the ocean was bewitching. I was bothered by her. We were on the balcony. I was kneeling facing the ocean and she was spread before me. My very own sun downer. I was bewildered by all the beauty that surrounded me. The setting sun cast it’s waning light on her. Her skin glimmered, her curves illuminated in the most beautiful light. Her voice, raw and needy, joined Ella’s and together, they made the perfect harmony.