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The Beauty of Barranquilla
She was a tall, striking, honeycomb delicious senorita
from South America who was stunningly beautiful,
picturesque and glowing like a suntanned, russet skin
magnificence. A body that was tapered finer than obelisk
marble. Skin preciously pliant, inebriating as a Kahlua
and caffeine buzz, reminding me of butter milk flowing
over polished, semi-precious agates. A wonderful, striking
complexion, radiant as glassy, tan silica; amply rich
natural blush, like Columbian coffee with two creams.
Eyes dark brown, captivating to excess, demurely
tugging the tethers of my grandee soul, as I know, starring
into overindulgence can smother your etiquette via the lure
of a visually pretty woman. A priceless work of art one can
always appreciate, but never possess. Still, she enticed me
deep into my own illusion. Every responsibility vanished
beneath a static oblivion. A distinctive world of man -
mind in the gutter, where aestheticism burns bonfires
of sexual hunger that are never extinguished or die out.
Grown up lips the color of caramel, soft as heated cacao taffy,
and totally sweet … like cordial strawberry bonbons dipped
in the melt of chocolate truffles. Her breath, a hundred times
more pleasing than butterscotch, with a tongue swirly
divine on top. A chap could not handle it if she was spied licking
ice cream or lollipops. No bloke could tolerate or watch
such a pre-eminent tease, ardently waning his chauvinist
candor and bluntly snubbing every other impulse, except to
jog away swiftly as one can to find an ice cold shower.
Wearing her hair discerning and poised, falling down
a chemise styled blouse to a curved waist, looking more
like a Sashay model, dancing a Flamingo when it rubbed across
the back of those princess pampered shoulders - during
walks to the lady’s room. Oh, to be a mirror, silently perched
upon those walls. Earlier I popped full saucer eyed as she came
strolling by, giving her long tresses a buoyant flip, reminding
me of murmuring zephyrs playing with a weeping willow tree;
choreographed intimacies that will drive your scalded senses wild.
Voice of an angel, dreamy and meditative as a Tibetan
chant, a mantra of exultation that would draw armies to her
rescue if she was harassed. Her smiles were totally feminine; my
deity of Amor how I envy a woman’s power to thaw you quicker
than frozen snow on the equator. Ebullient flirtations leaving you
viscous and wet, near partially insane, like a mermaid mirage
refusing to be passionate with you when shipwrecked, and stranded,
with no chance of rescue on a deserted, Caribbean island. Feeling
helpless as your firm shaft rejecting touch from your own fingers.
Porcelain smooth digits that could bare and stroke you with more
revolutions per minute than a revved, turbine engine. Although
a lady with such delicate fingers applied could always drain your energy
faster than a single battery powering a lighthouse all night. Liliaceous
perfume beating olfactory senses so hard that you want to stuff
every scent of her mind-blowing body into your snout. Imagination
sits proposing an exchange of champagne and roses for her salted
hollows and caviar. However, nothing you can do will bring to reality
you making love, or sleeping with this Spanish woman tonight.
