Anticipation

Ooh, how he loved sliding his hands over the long silkiness, the youthful curves of his new wife, over the negligee before it rode up… anticipation like driving a new car - not comparable, I know, and at odds, depending on whether you are for the wife or the car. Ooh, how he loved sliding his hands over the hood, the caps, the hips, the back. He loved the mirrors - those on the side or over the bed. He handled his new ride with care, the caress with smiles to impress. The leather new, the scent of Mon Paris Eau de Parfum. He’s not a poet, notices not the moon, sun or stars, but he can feel his way in the dark.