Fifty-Boy
1
The Siren's Skirt
Hot Tubs * Nudist Resorts * Curvy Girls * Pastel Toes
The Siren's Skirt
Hot Tubs * Nudist Resorts * Curvy Girls * Pastel Toes
You may read this blog and say it's not true...
I'd say probably, probably not...
I
was sitting
on a parrot
or a toucan on
a barstool on the beach
lacquered under my ass in a
Clearwater joint called Frenchy's on the
Gulf of Mexico.
Molly was sparkling some yachtie from Concord
with her electric emerald optics while he tacked upwind along
the round coast of her thighs with tales of Caribbean ports and pirates.
I knew that coastline.
I knew it well.
I knew it like a bone with the marrow sucked out knows a scrimshaw tattoo.
I'd shipwrecked there myself, several dozen times.
Any number of fools had risked everything
trying to navigate the passage to that
mythical island paradise
at the top of the sirens skirt.
The god who navigated for Ulysses
wouldn't have done him any good.
They faced each other and the sunset and the lightning on the darkening horizon,
her pretty toes in backless low-heeled sandals propped on the rungs, his muscular brown legs
stretched out to her like an invitation
around my shiny black stool.
I sat between them and faced the bar and ate my garlic mashed potatoes and Cajun amberjack and watched the Tampa Bay Buccaneers score another touchdown in October.
We were on our way home from being naked in Jamaica, Negril. I was glad just to be back. I swigged my beer and smiled. I'd seen kids do it, but for the first time in my life I tried a Corona with lime in it. The young girl tending bar said I'd love it. What the hell? It tasted new. Life was good again. I'd finally found the passage. We had enough money. I was happy just to no longer be Homeless Jake the Joke Man.
Three
years ago
to the day,
when I discovered her secret,
when I ran away from our routine,
when It all started,
I turned fifty.
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