His semi-sheer socks have been delightfully fragrant:
during dinner, when he slipped his shoes off beneath the table,
his walks to and from the salad bar drawing much attention;
during the long drive home, with his shoes tossed into the
back seat of my vehicle, and I could keep my eyes off them; and,
despite the memories of inhibitions that no longer controlled us,
his socks---when we were both otherwise naked---explored the
contours of my body, bring me to the peak of pleasire, to the
e'lation that began the seven surges that effected the release of
core-confected sweetness on to his socks, as he had encouraged and
imagined since the first plate of salad (mostly mushrooms, olives,
onions and Russian dressing) at dinner.
Starward