Word of the Day: Posh


Posh (adj.) elegant or stylishly luxurious; in an upper-class way

I turn into the Hobbies and Crafts aisle in Barnes and Noble and see what looks to be the answer to my prayers. A Spanish goddess dressed in a black and gold long sleeve V-neck romper with posh earrings and a necklace that disappears into her cleavage is rummaging through a row of books, her long black hair cascading from her shoulders in subtle curls. My breath slackens and I have to tighten my glutes just to keep my knees from melting. It’s a collective effort because my blood has gone hot, my heart pumping it through my veins so furiously that you would think stopping would be the only thing it wanted do. Yet, I manage.

Predator to prey, I center my focus, trying to pay attention more to the spines of the books she is looking at than the lustrous curve at the bottom of her spine. I fail. I wonder if a man bought that Chanel purse on her arm… No matter. She is here now. Alone. I make my way towards her.

“They told me you would be worth the wait.” She looks over at me but doesn’t straighten her back. She can stay in that position if she wants.

“And who are they?” she asks.

“The seconds it took for me to realize today is my lucky day. Barely any.” I grin. Not the kind a mother would be proud of either. No need to show my pearly whites yet.

“Is that right? Well that means you didn’t wait very long.” She’s a smart ass. Of course she is. She reads.

“That’s what you’re supposed to do when you see something you want,” I say. Ahhhh, now she straightens her back. Seems like I’ve finally gotten her attention. She is tall, even without her black suede boots and her honey-brown eyes assess me further, matching the words to the face, the black v-neck and jeans, the posture. Looking to see if everything adds up. I will myself to still, my breath coming and going silently like a cool breeze on a lonely beach with black sands.

“Didn’t your mother tell you you can’t always have what you want?” she says, a coy smile flattening her lips. I find a way to stand straighter.

“While mothers do say such things, they also say once you find a good woman to never let her go.” Her brows arched then, her mouth making a small “o.” My mind begins to revel in debaucheries.

“What makes you think I’m good?” Her hands find her hips and her eyes narrow. What they’re looking for, I’m not quite sure. You’re in the Hobbies and Crafts section for goodness sake. What else am I supposed to think?

“A woman in a bookstore is a fortune money can’t buy.” I just hit a nerve. It’s written all over her body. And her vibe. She is mine.

“And who said that?” she says with a smile that stirs my pride and joy. I show my teeth, my smile crooked as lightning.

“Me,” I say.

Word of the Day: Impetuous


Impetuous: (adj.) 1. acting or done quickly without thought or care; rash; impulsive

2. moving forcefully or rapidly

When she is looking at me the way she is, all wide-eyed as if I may disappear if she so happens to blink, her lips parted so that only a whisper could escape her lips and her legs wrapped around my waist as if my body was as much as a part of her own as her full breasts on my chest, its no wonder my blood boils with a blinding passion to want to lose myself inside of her. An impetuous kiss, before I can change my mind, before she can breathe again. Now, her breath is mine.

Our lips are locked, wet and unforgiving, searching for any and everything: the truth, the beginning, the end… An anger swells my chest at the thought of not knowing the taste of her until now and the need of her embrace feeds the fire of my soul I thought to be dead before she became the everything in my world. What a moment. I am lost in these emotions, lost in her motion.

The motion.

The next thing I know, I do the most cliche thing I’ve ever done in my life. With one massive swipe of my arm, I clear the desk of all the shit that’s not worth mentioning, her body still cradled close to my body in my other arm. Close to my heart, the vibrating thing. She lets out a sound I dare not call a laugh because its so filled with ravenous want that I can feel it in my bones. One of the most liveliest sounds I’ve ever heard. I push myself against her just before sitting her on the desk and she goes completely berserk. The hem of my shirt…over my head. Her hands…fumbling my buckle. I knock them away and start doing it myself because she is taking too long. A devil of a giggle spills from her tongue and she scratches me, all ten fingers, down my chest, my abdomen. Best feeling ever. Me being naked, I start taking her clothes off, having to reluctantly pull away from another kiss to pull her shirt off and free her cleavage. I hear my breath in my ears and it sounds so foreign. Ragged, harsh, even unsure, as if to whether its supposed to be sustaining my life or hers. Who knows? I’ve lost my end and her beginning. We are tumbling as one, a kaleidoscope of colors, a melody of beautiful savagery, a perfect storm with monstrous waves and vengeful winds. Her skin is soft under my long fingers, warm and reddened with anticipation. I’ve waited and waited and waited for this. Her hair between my fingers. I yank, lifting her chin and exposing her throat. She gasps. Her smell is…divine. My want explodes.

Finally, she is naked. My heart beats wildly at my ribs as we make eye contact and then time stills. She is ready.

I am ready.

I pull her to me and then…

I wake up.


Word of the Day: Subjugate


Subjugate (v.)- to bring under complete control; master

His punch didn’t hurt as much as I thought a punch should’ve felt. Maybe because my head is just really that hard or maybe he just took a gamble he wasn’t quite ready for. Either way, I know now I can take a hit. I recover fast enough to dodge his next punch and the next; my confidence building, my grin twisting. Similar to most things, the best way to get over a fear is to do it. Getting licked was no different. But all over a girl? It was nothing but a kiss.

As if my thoughts were exhibits for him to regard at his leisure, his brows corrugate in a fiery frustration as he comes at me with splayed arms to tackle me. I flex my stomach and we collide like rhinos, me having to widen my stance defensively since he had a running start. His arms hook around my waist and I feel him try to throw me to the ground. What a rookie mistake. I throw my arms around his neck into a choke hold and subjugate him to his knees by squeezing–no, crushing his windpipe with the bony side of my forearm. I grab hold of my wrist to secure my grip and feel his hollow throat folding under the pressure I am exerting. It’s only a matter of time before it’s all over.

He finally lets go and I look up at her with a nasty grin. Blonde hair, red lips, brown eyes. Taken. He is mine as are you. She gasps. My blood boils at the sight. Now, I want more than a kiss from her, more out of spite than desire. Not sure what that makes me, but I don’t give a shit right now. He should’ve never tried me. It was a cheap shot.

She had been screaming our names, but now she is only screaming mine. The way it should be. She wants me to let go. I demand silence with a stern look and return my attention to the pissant underneath my arm.

“You done?!” He was still throwing harmless blows to my ribs. I chuckle. Guess not. Looking back, I don’t know why I asked. He can’t even breath, much less talk. I decide to not let him go, to let him fight, and eventually drift until consciousness is no more because I can tell he doesn’t really want to give up. Some people have to learn the hard way. I feel his helplessness and look at hers. Power. It’s the only word that comes to mind. He’s weak and doesn’t deserve you. Don’t you see that?  I would subjugate her soon enough in more…sensuous ways.

I feel him go limp under my grip. I drop him to the sands, the sound of the ocean roaring at us in rage…or excitement. I can’t tell. I check his pulse to make sure he isn’t dead. He isn’t. I grin.

But his chances with her are.

Word of the Day: Virile


Virile (adj.): 

  1. of, pertaining to, characteristic of, or befitting a man; masculine; manly
  2. having or characterized by strength and energy


One second remained on the clock and we are down one. I look up at the dry erase board from the end of the bench, barely hearing what coach’s game plan was while other plays are forming in my mind. One second is enough time to do what needs to be done. It’s not impossible but I’m going to need a back up plan, just in case, if we are to win. I can already tell coach’s play is going to be too predictable.

The buzzer sounds and the time to take care of business is finally here. My favorite time.

The clutch.

We put our hands together and harrumph on my countdown. Just one of my many responsibilities as captain of the team. It’s around this time, the moment talk loses its value and action replaces it, that everything starts to slow down for me. When everything makes sense for me. Talk is cheap. All I’ve ever asked from another is to show me what you’ve done. Respect lies there.

I make eye contact with coach. He has placed all of his faith in me again. That’s what that look he is giving me says. He had drawn up a play for me to shoot a three-pointer at the top of the key although my shot has been off all game. None of the other guys say anything as we make our way back onto the court after the timeout. They don’t have to. Their doubt is loud enough. Damn flakers. I don’t care for what they think I can do. I am the team’s leading scorer for a reason and performing under the pressure is what they pay me to do. But I have to admit, this night is different.

My girlfriend committed suicide this morning; a knife to the throat. Her handwriting on the note was hardly legible due to the fact large smudges had stained the paper in spots where her tears had fallen. I’m sorry was all she had wrote. News reached me first through her parents, their sobs bleeding through the phone and into my heart. Crushed thing. And now, I am playing in the most important game of the season with that on my mind. The championship game. What good are emotions if they get in the way of what you’re trying to do? My frustration is more focused on why she would do such a thing to me instead of why I can’t seem to throw the basketball in the ocean. Wasn’t what we had enough for her? Was it something I did? Something I said?

I swear at my roving thoughts. Now is not the time to teeter between my love for her and my love for this game. Such an unfair fight anyway. No wonder I’m struggling between my commitments as a boyfriend and my duties as our best player. No one should have to go through this. Not to mention, the guy guarding me is playing extremely physical. I stare him down as we get into position on the court. He is taller than me and virile, his muscles flexing with the least bit of effort. We exchange silent words of war. I have to focus if I’m to beat him this time. There is one second for me to prove my worth yet again. One second out of thousands. The referee gives my teammate the ball to inbound it and I push her from my mind with all the strength I could muster, until it hurt, and the moment becomes the moment.

Winning time.