Maybe I don't like the silence because it reminds me of an ex who used to disappear for days at a time, saying that the aliens had abducted him. Every time he'd reappear it was with some new girl, hanging off his dick - and I knew he'd slept with her so that he'd have a place to sleep, and food to eat. I could never understand why he wouldn't come to me to ask for these things, knowing that he'd never have to pay for them with sex. The last time he disappeared for months, turning up on the opposite coast so that he could "make it," but came back home with a pregnant fiancé.
The last straw was when I slapped his ass while he fucked me slow. "You sick fuck," he rumbled in my ear. We laughed in the thick darkness with nothing but each other to cling to.
I want to write a poem on your body, scrawl all the words of my love and passion upon your flesh; my mouth the pen. I promise to write slowly, ensure proper punctuation and grammar, and to end with a stroke that brings you bliss.
I don't want love, not really. Not the contented domesticity of a white wedding, a swollen pregnant belly, a house in the suburbs or a white picket fence. None of the considerations and compromises that leave you resentful, thinking about how you're losing out on your best fucking years as you brush your teeth while your partner takes a piss. No - what I want is, in comparison, hedonism. The blaze of passion, white hot and unquenchable. To worship your body with my mouth, my hands. I want to shiver under your touch, feel the desire of your gaze and die the little death beneath you. I want the romance of dancing in the kitchen, of falling asleep in your arms, to hold your deepest secrets in confidence, to know you better than anyone else. Then I want the drama. I want you to break my heart, to shatter it so that I can write shitty poems for a lifetime.
It lay heavily on my tongue, syrupy with a cloying sweetness, before I swallowed, feeling the burn of Napalm. "That was the only alcohol in the place," you observed, dryly but not without amusement. "Did you want a taste?" the words were too mature for me but you knew that, and perhaps that was the appeal for you.
I could feel your presence - passionate, intense like the eye of a hurricane - just outside the door. My fingers hesitated on the lock for just a moment - a heartbeat - before letting you in. You slipped in, as silent and light footed as a shadow, simultaneously locking the door and, pushing me against the wall with your slim body. I folded beneath the slight pressure of your mouth, both urgent and exquisitely, painfully slow. My breath caught in my chest, head spinning with vertigo. And before I knew it, you sank to your knees and began removing my pants with your teeth.
I think about you late at night,
when I’m trying to fall asleep
which is counterproductive to
I think about me stripped
bare beneath you, legs spread
wide in eager welcome and you
There is a feeling of awe
each time you slide into me
and I look down the long length
Yet, even though these images
make the vein in my neck throb
I still fall into a deep, peaceful
cigarette in hand,
offering to share
away from me
with a boyish
my eyebrow, arched,
a silent question
you come near
my blood pressure
"There's showers here," I didn't think much of this information until I watched you walk toward the building - each step lingering - hope in every footprint. You stopped one last time, at the doors of your destination and I could feel the glee of your mischievous grin from across the field. I found you there, stripped bare and radiant in your beauty, waiting for me...
My new lover called today, purring obscenities in my ear like a fat cat about to get its fill on something juicy. In my excitement to get it in, I decided to Nair, rather than shave my thick, auburn, pubic hair. We were naked an hour later, when he recoiled in horror. I turned my head to look, then had to explain that it was a chemical burn and not, in fact, Herpes.