Friday, August 30, 2013
As summer approaches, I often think of childhood memories, but not always. Sometimes, summer conjures up those wicked nights spent at the festivals off the waterfront.
My early thirties were my Indian Summer. I was young then, a working professional with no commitments. One year at the African World festival I spotted a fine brother, the kind of man, what is it they say in those novels, arresting, yes he was arresting. He was sporting an Isaac Hayes dome. He was smooth milk chocolate (cliche but everything you think of when you think chocolate, he was). He wore a loose fitting shirt, you know, the kind that billows in the wind as you walk along the shore. Sported matching linen pants, loose but not so loose I couldn't detect the gluteus maximus that only a brother who diligently squats three times a week and runs five miles a day before dawn has. I watched the rhythmic roll of his hips to the drums of a funky Latin beat, yes, I know it was African World but I know it was Latin because he told me all about the group later, but I’m jumping ahead here. Everybody was feelin’ the groove and the groove was bumpin’. I slipped into that sea of warm bodies and prayed to the deities of lust to be kind to me. Let Isaac find his way to my full swaying, tangerine hips. I wanted to share his heat. And how did it turn out? Let’s just say everytime I look at my 70s inspired, striped hip hugging robe, I smile and I remember the night the gods smiled on me.
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