The Supermoon

The supermoon was inspiring. At more than fourteen percent larger in appearance and thirty percent brighter than the average full moon, it mesmerized me as it rose between the neighbor’s tree and house. It hadn’t been this large in appearance since before I was born and wouldn’t be again until November 25, 2034. I did the math. I didn’t want to think about how old I would be in 2034 . . . if I was still alive then.

I texted Jake. “Stop whatever you’re doing and look at the moon.”

I heard nothing back from him, but the supermoon was spanning two nights, so I texted again the next night. “If you missed it last night, you get another shot at seeing the supermoon tonight. Best seen as it rises (shortly after five). Powerful moon influencing feelings, passion, earthly pleasures. (And you just thought it was your testosterone.) Take a deep breath, surrender to it, and imagine the juiciness. As they say, the goddess is alive and magic is afoot.”

He texted back saying that he had actually seen it the previous night while on his way into a dance and jokingly admitted he had, indeed, thought it was his testosterone.

“Men always seem to think that the juice rising within them is all their own testosterone,” I texted back. “We women (the embodiment of the goddess) usually just let you think that.”

He found that funny and said that a thought had crossed his mind about that moon. He was fantasizing an assignation, outdoors at my house while watching the moon. He was graphic about the details of what he had in mind. But . . . he had a lot to do that night. He was busy the following two nights and then would be leaving town for an extended weekend. Still, he wanted to know if we could see the moon from my deck.

The deck was not the place for what he had in mind. Too visible. The gazebo was the place for it.

“Stop talking and get over here, ” I texted back.

But this was the only night he had to do laundry before he left town. If he did come over, it would have to be a very short visit to fulfill the fantasy that was not only in his head (actually, both heads), but now also in mine. He was not even sure he needed to do laundry. He had to check.

“Again, stop talking and get over here,” I texted back.

He left his phone to check on the laundry situation.

While he was doing that, I decided that he was going to lose points, big time, if he tossed me aside for his laundry–or maybe be tossed aside himself. I’m an understanding woman, but there are limits to it.

Ten minutes later, he texted saying that he did have to do laundry, but it might have to be done a little later than he’d planned. Still, he was concerned about whether I was actually okay with him coming and going (so to speak) as quickly as he would need to.

I admitted that I didn’t find it optimal, but also admitted that I wanted him.

He had worked late and had just gotten home before my first text came in. After a quick shower, he would make the drive from his end of the metro area to mine. He texted again as he was leaving with a suggestion about what I might consider wearing, though he admitted that he thought I should wear anything that would keep me comfortably warm. It was November, after all.

I have never needed a man’s help in putting myself together, and I didn’t that night. I was already dressed by then anyway. I thought he would be pleased.

I kept an eye out when enough time had passed for him to make his way across the city, and I was at the front door by the time he got out of his car.

“You . . . look . . . so . . . sexy,” he said in a low, deep voice filled with hunger as he walked toward the house.

The inside door wasn’t even closed before we reached for one another. It had been two months. I was way overdue for the physical presence of him. Whatever the past two months had been like for him, he was totally with me in that moment. My knees nearly buckled. When we finally pulled back long enough for me to close the door, I held up a foot so he could see that downstream from the white bustier and gauzy skirt, I was wearing ankle strap stiletto sandals. My best friend and I had referred to shoes like that as hooker shoes when we were in our early thirties, but one of our friends would have called them find-me-f***-me shoes. Whatever you called them, they seemed like the appropriate footwear for fulfilling the fantasy he had described in his text.

I led him up the stairs, through the house, out through the kitchen door to the upper deck, down the deck stairs, and out to the gazebo. Before he arrived, I’d had the presence of mind to bring out a blanket, just in case we needed it to stave off the cold. I doubted we would need it. Heat was radiating off us.

The moon was as inspiring as it had been the night before. We took the inspiration and ran with it, picking up where we had left off at the front door. In short order, I turned to look at the moon and find purchase on the gazebo railing. The railing was just a little high in relation to my height for what I had in mind, but I struggled to get a foothold. Jake had his own struggles. He was fumbling with his sartorial trappings, as well as his corporeal ones. Behind me, his arms around me and his head close to mine, he murmured, I mumbled, and we ultimately laughed at our ample fervor coupled with our deficient dexterity. In essence, our enthusiasm outstripped our ability to gracefully engage.

Despite the fact that I had quickly abandoned the railing for one of the chairs, I was not a masterful mistress, and he was not quite the adroit master. We were, however, both fearless right up to the moment that he knocked over the iron and marble table. It went down with a decisive, loud thud. I was having too much fun, despite our ineptness–or maybe even because of it–to care. But Jake was concerned about attracting the neighbors’ attention.

We gathered up what we needed to, left the gazebo, and made our way to the house with him in the lead. My skirt got caught on both the heel of my shoe and the railing, and I murmured a little sound of distress. Jake stopped in his tracks.

“Are you hurt? Are you okay?” he asked, his voice carrying a tone of honest concern.

And that small act represented one of the primary reasons (chemistry aside) I was willing to engage in spontaneous, uninhibited, intemperate activities with him despite the fact that we were not candidates for a long-term relationship. There was an underlying vein of caring and kindness to the man.

Once inside, our physical deftness returned. Hands and legs, mouths and torsos, hips and fingers were all back where they belonged, and our muscle memory of their use eventually kicked in. The ankle strap sandals remained on. Later, he accused me of almost growling at one point. It had inspired him as much as the supermoon.

I had been committed to keeping the rendezvous brief because he needed to get back home, but he stayed longer than he’d planned. I’m pretty sure, though, that he had a smile on his face when he did his laundry.


Note: The name Jake is fictitious and has been used out of respect for the man involved.


Copyright 2016 by Melanie Mulhall


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