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I was not looking for love;

She sat down, an older lady by far,
maybe Persian, which would fit,
because the only Farsi words I know
mean “I love you.”

I probably told her this.  She giggled.
Traveling alone from Orange County
to meet family in Las Vegas.

I was heading back to a lonely motel
room, after a Los Angeles date fell through.

We spoke to each other a little, me never
thinking anything big would happen.

I had near hits on the bus; a young blonde
woman telling me some words seemed
silly to her, like “direction,” an obvious
play on male arousal.

That lady just bundled up, and we giggled
at each other across the aisle.

But the Farsi lady was next to me on
the window seat.  Both of us unattached,
but if you went by age, you would think
“Oh, she’s too old to think like that…”

But there we were talking, halfway into
the five-hour trip.  It was dark, only car
lights and shadows whizzing by in the loneliness
of our lives.

Travel-high, we shared stories, and talked
and talked.  She had a nice smile, dark hair—
short, a free lady from a part of the world
women struggled to express.

She said I was “nice.”  This with a big smile,
and frankly said it in a way that said
“I really like you…”

Eyebrows might rise, as a tingle forms in
pants at connecting hearts, a mind together
forming for an interlude of gentle unknowns
and touch—

I said, “If you call me nice again, I might have
to kiss you.”

And she said, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

She smiled, and I leaned in to kiss her.

A first kiss, yielding to open-mouthed second,
for a second both of us one in focus
on the wonders of sex.  The precursor to
creative romps electric, tongue on tongue,
sticky and clinging, messy—it’s not a skill,
it’s surrender to life and love that matters!

Hands grabbed at breasts, all was available,
the key in the door.

I asked her some questions, hoping she
thought what I thought, and the rub and
kiss continued to open a new place for her.

We seemed at a breaking point, me aware of
a slightly disabled teenage girl across the aisle to my right,
this exotic older lover, with some scruples
but not many.

She wanted me, so placed a sweater over
her crotch, unzipped her jeans.

God bless her for it, I was fine to help,
so entered her area with my right hand,
smoothing over her curling black hair, finding
a wet reception in the hot pleasure zone
of fire—life inside, I gave it to her, with

a finger used at times to tell a stranger
to get back in his lane on the freeway.

Our mouths and tongues locked as I
pumped her pleasure crevasse.  God I love
a good bus ride!!

She grunted light sounds into my lungs,
as I tired.  She came and zipped up slowly.

She promised she’d call me, as she rode off
into the night later with family members.

I waved at her good bye, and she pretended
I was no big deal.

She never called, but sometimes I hear her
gasping in my dreams, the pleasure
that makes a painful night interesting,
the memory its own cavern of wonder,
more and more important a place with
every day lived toward greying hair, old
age and stunted libidos.


Never judge a book by its cover, go with
the flow, and find a friendly memory as a
companion for life—the next best thing
to a physical place to rest your heart by
the fire at night.

Love in a Greyhound bus.  You never know
where it’s going to go right!