Volare

It wasn’t the song that reminded me. Not the music. It was just a name.

Gipsy Kings.

Still, the memories, years old, made cold by all the others that came between, came back in that instant.

The awkward conversation late into the night, our bodies humming with the electricity of that boundary that we hadn’t breached but wanted to. The too-long pause in saying goodnight. I almost walked away; you acted fast and kissed me. Slid a hand around my waist and up under my shirt, while your tongue battled mine.

I pulled away that time. But not the next. Or the next. Drawing a line in the sand, only to have one or both of us erase it each time in the exploration of the next step.


It was always the frenzied kisses that made me feel like you were making love to my mouth. Stolen moments with your hand up my skirt, inside my panties, making me come. Your fingers wound through my hair, your cock in my mouth, groaning as I swallowed you, kissing me afterwards and tasting yourself on my tongue.

We needed liquid courage for the next boundary; the malty taste of your mouth against mine as you slid inside me, thick and hard. Not wanting to stop; dawn found us raw, aching, exhausted, and sweaty.

The stolen moments were always frantic and quick and desperate. In a dark hotel room, the sheets rough against our skin, but private. Straddling you in the car on a dark road, watching for headlights as you buried yourself in me, your fingers digging into my hips while your mouth caught a nipple. You murmuring words into my ear when I collapsed against you, reluctant to break the spell.

Gipsy Kings.

That night, you tried to make it special. Tired of frantic, you led me inside. The space was unfinished. But you laid out a blanket on the floor, amidst the paint cans and tools and construction remnants. Closed the blinds and turned on the light so you could see. Undressed me on the blanket slowly, reveling in the freedom of time and space. You turned on the portable CD player, the Latin guitar sounds masking the street noises. “Bamboleo” the background for your kisses, your fingers, your movements.

The light cast odd shadows on the dark red splotch she’d painted on the wall. She’s testing. Thinking about her space with you. You had your back to it, whether consciously or unconsciously ignoring it. So I closed my eyes and only saw you, smelled you, felt you, heard you. And the Gipsy Kings.

“Nel blu dipinto di blu (Volare)” played in the background as you slid between my legs, staring down at me, buried in my wetness with my legs wrapped around your back. The floor was hard beneath the blanket, as you thrust, but my hips moved to meet yours anyway, and you exploded inside of me, your heart beating like the pulsating, insidious beat of the music. I didn’t understand the lyrics that swirled around us; I understood those three words you said.

Gipsy Kings.

Too many years to count. But the lyrics seem fitting. Then, I was happy to be up there.

Volare, oh oh... (Flying, …)
Cantare, ohohoho... (Singing, ... )
Nel blu dipinto di blu (Blue painted in the blue)
Felice di stare lassù (Happy to be up there)