Bread and Sex
Pam Manns Once I entered a room of baking bread. The heady smell of yeast filled the air. I pulled the baked bread out of the warm oven, and rapped my knuckles on the hot crust to hear its hallow sound. I ran my finger tips down the bread, over the slashed top, lightly so my hands would not get burned. I felt the heat and the rough outer layer and took in that aroma. It wrapped around me like a cloak, and I felt the heat run down my body, tip to sole. I yearned for it, desired it. I broke off the smallest piece and let it melt away, but I wanted more. I wanted to see what was inside. What would the grain look like? Would the taste linger? Disappear? I ran my fingers down the bread again, and fought the urge to ravage it, and find out its mysteries. I wondered what the texture would be like; would the warmth stay with me? Would it be satisfying? I waited, antsy with anticipation.
My lover was in the kitchen too. His sounds were familiar, his smells were familiar. I knew how he tasted, yet I could run my fingers down his skin and still feel the heat. Knowing, yet unsure of what comes next, I waited, antsy with anticipation.
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