The Sailor & The Virgin
They danced, and they danced. The people, they danced.
The Sailor was dressed in usual naval blue, dark as the ocean’s belly. The Virgin had approached mid-waltz, in shades of beige. Amid elusive hand-gestures, crafted glances, the two had simmered between clouds of bourbon-eyed folk and the salty air of night. That night, the moon gazed in waxy adoration. If you looked closely, it smiled. Between humid sweet aroma and gentle tides, the moon smiled.
You’re nervous, laughed The Virgin.
Shucks, aren’t you? Said The Sailor.
Despite the pretence, neither were exempt from dusk’s anxiety. Rather, The Virgin masqueraded their inhibition in sugar-coated allure and dignity.
I’ve been with other boys before, no big, The Virgin lied. I don’t doubt that, The Sailor replied.
C’mon, let’s have fun! The Virgin cried. Both sprung their plucky arms to the sky, and waved in vigorous kinesis.
You want the attention, huh? The Sailor asked, with eyebrows parked up his forehead.
I’m no wallflower, The Virgin hummed.
The two found excitement right there where they wanted it. Between petal lips budding together, there came a caveman-fire. It was no mistake, this liaison. The Sailor possessed The Virgin, and The Virgin slipped languid humanity to the floor.
I can see the moon in your eyes.
You wanna be the first sailor in space?
And so, The Virgin had The Sailor wrapped in a web. Their web weaved so illustriously, it caught The Sailor by the arms…the legs…the hips and the waist. The eyes, the ears, the mouth and the nose.
Round and round — spun the web. Back and forth, up and down, twisting and turning, around and around, down and up, back and forth once more.
Glee struck the virgin. Or, Virgin no-more.
He was The Lover, christened in one moment.
Oh it hurt, He confessed.
It always does, said The Sailor, and so they kissed.
They danced, and they danced. The two boys, they danced.