Body of Bubbly

I've always thought of champagne as a woman.

Caress her glass curves, fresh from fridge, sweating cold in my parched palms. Her cork plugged ultra tight, pleading "pop me."

I've never known how to open her, but i've been studying. Something about a towel, a firm grip, stripping foil... she's difficult to please--she knows this.

Tugging at her until my knuckles go white, she finally comes undone, spilling into my hands and splattering fizz on my kitchen floor. I smell her right away--fruity, but dry. Sizzling sultry in my ear.

I bring her eagerly to my lips, but in a blink, she's hit the tile.

Spread wide open, shards dance bv naked feet. She must have slipped right from me, bottle body too slick for my rookie fingers.

This is how it goes.

She's gone before my tongue can cruise through her acid car wash or her amber bubbles can tickle my throat, gone before she can soak my brain in liquid desire or drown my mind's defenses.

So I set up camp in the kitchen, perched on bony, sliced-up knees, and I beg

For just... one...