Summer’s Eve is the name of a douche. This story isn’t about that; it’s about last night.
The neighborhood children were running through the backyards at dusk. They were all barefoot, some giggling and some screaming as they chased fireflies. As the bugs lit up, the kids would alert their friends and give chase. They would capture them in cupped hands, right underneath my open bedroom window, making memories.
Inside my bedroom I laid over my bed bare-butted, awaiting my lover to return with a wooden spoon from the kitchen. (His cupped hand just wasn’t punishment enough.) One of us giggled with anticipation, the other screamed as the spoon did its damage. (I’ll let you guess who was who.) He really lit up my ass, I can’t recall in recent memory a more stinging spanking! Just before he hit me with the first of eight million three hundred thousand ninety seven hard swats, I composed a haiku to commemorate the occasion. I never feel more sexy than at this outwardly quiet but internally frenetic moment, presenting my big bare butt for a memorable blistering, wanting it and dreading it, wanting to get it over with and wanting it to last all night, wanting my lover and fearing him…
Summertime to me
is watching fireflies’ butts lit
and waiting for mine.