Strong Erotic Content. Dedicated to everyone who has felt great passion. And great loss.

I had not listened to Fado for quite a while. Why? Was I afraid of passion in crescendoes and refrain, the Portuguese guitar work, so much like the Blues, piercing into my heart, coursing through my veins like the very blood itself?

Maybe because I thought about whenever I listened, of the time when we were together. How when we were alone, she would quickly reach for the buckle of my belt, undo it, then unbutton my jeans, letting them bunch around my ankles, pull down my boxers, grab my balls in her fist to draw my penis to her mouth, then lick and suck the head until I was breathing heavy. And crazy from the scene.

I would bring her from her knees to her feet, spin her around so she could feel my prick against her butt. Then I would raise the hem of her dress, pull it over her shoulders. I was pleased when she wore neither brassiere or knickers.

A slight push was all it took to send her toppling onto the mattress. And the fadista continued her songs on the record, happy now as the fado continued, like the happiness that only being with one’s lover can bring.

She had turned around facing me so we could begin the wet deep kisses we both thrived on. She would guide my penis inside her and I would grasp her buttocks and we would kiss as our pelvises rocked and thrust and pushed back. We were caught in that world, where we yearned for time to freeze, one slow millisecond away from our release.

Love, I guess, is like that sometimes, the songs a translation of passion and kisses, and sweat.

It sure didn’t feel like risk.