Tropic of Desire

Through the electric window, little points of light, tiny bright pixels burst like stars as the images appear. He sends them to me, through the jungle of wire, from his trip back home. Brazil. I see him smiling, laughing, the curve of his eyes like crescent moons in laughter. His Korean eyes; an echo of generations, of the tangled arms and legs of his mother and father, grandmother, grandfather. From Korea to Brazil, from the shore of the Yellow Sea, Huang Hai, through the bodies of continents, to the open arms of languid Bahia. It was there he was, I can only guess, conceived on a languid afternoon, where they made love slowly, like the rhythm of waves caressing the sand. His parents must have given him his smile too, a smile that beams in tropical warmth. In the picture on my screen, there is the equator of his mouth.

I am lost in the equator of his mouth.

Beaches appear, the sway of palm trees, colors in the sky, jeweled light. Water of impossible color, a blue, so deep and clear it looks unreal. It makes me think of the bath gel I loved as a little girl; aquamarine from a plastic tube, the scent of fresh wet grass and flowered soap.
Bahia. With that blue tropical shore behind him, he looks into the square frame at me, sipping on a straw out of a coconut. He is tall, wide-shouldered, leaning toward the camera, sleek black hair in a chignon, strands coming loose in the warm breeze. He sips, lips placed around the straw. The vision sends electric shivers through my body like thousands of minnows swimming along a fast river current. It is my desire to kiss him that sends these sensations shoaling through the river of my body. He is underneath an umbrella, and as I look deeper within the picture on my screen, I can almost feel his skin. It is sticky from the humid air, with little hidden lights along his shoulder that sparkle and lure me. Along his left shoulder, a reflection of blue from a beach umbrella curves along his skin. His skin must be so smooth, I think. I wonder, what does he taste like upon that shoulder. Does it taste saline from his sweat, the salt air? I imagine the scent of him, musky, coconut tanning lotion, and spicy like cinnamon tea. The ocean water is glittering upon his skin, drying in the sunlight. He is luminous.
In my mind, I hear his laughter. His voice is luxurious. It fills the air with a rhythm, and the soft guitar string of his voice resounds in a chord of sunsets.
Images fill the computer screen in squares. Within these squares, the beach and the man I desire. They are little gems, glittering. I want them like a thief. I want the contents to consume me until I am covered in sun and sand, with his strong body rising within me like the surf.
Waves of blue drench me. I am wet and tasting sweet and salty, skin slick with coconut oil, my sex open like the center of a fruit. Bananas curve from trees. I desire his sex, to fill my mouth with. I want him with a thirst, as he sips the coconut. I imagine, his tongue tastes sweet. I slip the thought lightly along my lips, tasting the thought again, the slow syrup of his kiss. Sand surrounds us, so hot, burning, sugar in a pan. Lips like passion fruit, like guava. My mouth longs to taste him. Plantain sweet, in my mind he fills my body, and I imagine sea-foam with the tide of his desire, his beautiful sex sliding within. The sound he makes, the way his face delights and his mouth opens. As I touch myself, I think of his face like this.
What does he say when he is with a lover? In a cadence of Portuguese, whispered, does he say things that are raw, delectable? I want him to say these little things within the shell of my ears.
Now I am reaching for him, imagining my body upon his. My legs are wrapped around him on a lounge chair, the one behind him, in that picture with the coconut. He is holding me upon him, his hands strong around my waist, around the small of my back as we make love. Thinking this, my sex becomes as hot as the climate of the Amazon.
I look at more photographs; little squares, appearing like sudden dreams. I see another of him, his arm outstretched, taking a self-portrait from the passenger seat of the car. It is the angle he looks at me, head tilted sideways, a hint of a smile, but his face tells me much more. His eyes are concentrated desire. He is inviting me to look deeper into the world of him. He is wearing an aqua-blue shirt, the color of everything. I finger through his warm black hair in my mind. My eyes drift over his right ear, his smooth face, graceful eyebrows punctuating his barely-there smile. An intimate smile; a ripple on the glassy surface of a beautiful lake. The lobe of his ear asks for kisses. His chin, symmetrical, burnished porcelain. Yet that mouth. It’s his mouth that pulls me, draws me to him. Now we are between the equator and the Tropic of Capricorn.
I have wandered into the Tropic of Desire, following the map of this longing, dreaming in this hothouse, intoxicated. Here, he is mine.