My lover of six months sits watching on the edge of my tousled bed. I walk toward her, playing at being one of the ships come sailing in on Christmas day in the morning. I make the scarf billow and puff, silky cloth about to carry us toward reefs, shoals, the narrow opening between rocks, the way to safe harbor. I advanced toward her, my breasts dangerous and innocent. She says, "stop it." She looks away, repulsed. Then she says Iremind her of a girl she wanted in high school-- blonde, hetersexual, femme. She doesn't say if she ever touched the girl. She says, "Don't act like that." I sit down on the bed; she puts her arms around me. The creamy warmth that flowed as I walked toward her congeals and stiffens in the crotch of my panties.
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