Cuffing Season

Cuffing season is upon us.

Movies, blankets, cuddling up to get warm, fireplaces, candles, sweaters, warm socks at the end of intertwined legs, the jolt of someone else's cold nose touching yours when you first start to kiss, hands warm from holding mugs of tea pressed up against the cold of the inside of your thigh,  the particular kind of chill that runs down your body only in the fall and winter when a lover kisses your ear, kicking the covers off of your sweating bodies even though you were freezing just a few minutes ago.


Sugar and spice and everything nice; dirt and rain and semen.



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k.

(image: Angel Series, Rome, 1977-1978 Francesca Woodman)

The Sound Of Twigs Snapping Underneath Such Beautiful Shoes

Just out of the shower at 6pm, with a 9pm curtain call of sorts. It feels good- like mint upon one's body. To have wet, combed hair in the coolness of the evening, and be able to see the day's sun setting through my bedroom window.

I feel clean. Washed of the recent dust bunnies that have been developing in the corners of my mind.

I know, I know. It's a gross image.  But you know what I'm talking about.

Tonight will be Spanish and English and ASL and good company and art and darkness.

How could one ever go wrong with that?

be well; be loved,

k.

PS I've been listening to Avec le Soleil Sortant de sa Bouche's Super pastiche fantastique (members of Fly Pan Am) last night/today at the recommendation of a lad whose music tastes I trust/enjoy. Listen along.


(image: via 40 media tumblr)