Deep and Dark

I was five years old.
On a Sunday morning, at the crack of dawn,
cocooned in two-toned, slate-blue, pullover pajamas,
I stood rapt in the shadows
outside the Thompson master bedroom.

It was my first sleep over.
A night of fitful tossing and turning had left me thirsty.
Tumbling down the deserted stairs
in search of a cool drink from the kitchen,
I heard the word YES! erupt ecstatically
from behind a closed door.
Piercing the still morning air,
in a rhythmic, orgiastic duet,
a male and female voice
echoed spasmodic,
muffled, shrill and syncopated interjections of:
‘Oh yessssss! Oh God! Oh sweet God! O mother of God!
Don’t Stop! You big beast! Give me! Give me! Give IT to me!’
until,
at long last
in a climax
of high-pitched, agitated monkey coo’s,
superseded by a
succession of tapering, cathartic sighs,
a pregnant silence oozed.

Without warning,
the door swung open,
and a blinding shaft of light
fell just short of my exposed toes.
Squinting,
I looked up to behold
the naked Mrs. Thompson towering before me.
Her belly and thighs dripping wet,
skin moist, glistening,
raven, disheveled shoulder-length hair,
large, flashing brown eyes,
wide, half-open, full-lipped mouth,
all heralding
a majestic woman of ravenous sensuality.
But most strange and exotic of all,
her nipples were ringed by
dark, violet, misshapen, oval blotches,
as if tattooed
in some esoteric, primitive ritual.

The bedroom door left ajar,
I caught a glimpse,
like a Turkish pasha lavished in pillows,
of Mr. Thompson sitting upright on a low-lying bed.
He had a look I never had seen before.
His being,
as if kissed by life itself,
radiated a miraculous, unalloyed blend of
relaxation,
satiation,
and
awe.

The toilet flushed,
Mrs. Thompson returned to the bedroom,
shut the door,
and after a passing
spume of giggles,
all was quiet.

My thirst obliterated in the passion of the moment,
I returned stunned and tingling to my room.

For the rest of my childhood,
the unspeakable animal cries,
coupled with the brief, stolen vision
of the statuesque naked mother and her sublimely touched husband,
remained a deep and dark mystery.
It wasn't till many years later,
in my young adulthood,
with the bliss of consummation,
that the shroud of bewilderment was lifted.
As for the violet nipples,
the enigma survived
till
I witnessed the consequences of a weaning.