Everyday Erotica

The old urban myth that men think of sex about every 20 seconds has been squashed. Apparently men think of sex about 20 times a day and women 10, according to research at Ohio State University. That is still enough times for there to be a chance of an erotic poem surfacing in your imagination, should any of your sexual thoughts wander above your navel.:D
 
Erotic is where you find it:

Hot Biscuits

Scratch baker girl in a dusty apron.
Shortening and flour, momma, Cut me in
and bathe me in sweet milk
till I squeeze sticky through your fingers.
Brown me top and bottom,
butter and jam
me in your mouth.
 
Colaptes auratus

The flicker is hammering
on the telephone pole again,
like a sailor on shore leave
with three month’s wages
in his pocket. Aren’t you late,
my friend?
I ask him, Spring
is the season of a young male’s
fancy for that kind of thing.


But then I think perhaps he’s old.

We older men seek love in summer, too,
and we’re already starting
to think about the fall.
 
Untangling the chains of silver Nepali anklets
Made me imagine
taking you
to see the erotic carvings at Durbar square

Later my anklets would dance a raga
Tiny bells jingling
beneath my crimson toenails
on your shoulders
 
Untangling the chains of silver Nepali anklets
Made me imagine
taking you
to see the erotic carvings at Durbar square

Later my anklets would dance a raga
Tiny bells jingling
beneath my crimson toenails
on your shoulders

I like this.
 
National Pastime
...a mom who went to third base
in the back of a minivan
with a man who wasn't her husband...
—Shannon Cook, “Moms gone wild: '40-year-old reversion'” (cnn.com)


I’m more of a singles hitter myself.
Never bulked up enough
to take a pitch
straight into the seats
or even tight against the wall
deep onto the warning track. Still,
with care and patience and skill,
and playing the game “the right way,”
I can often get to third—
the so-called hot corner.
Where, as any fan knows, once there
you have a lot of ways to score.
 
Head tilted coyly
she sucks in and licks
a scarlet painted
finger tip, just used
to diddle her clitty,
sitting legs parted
for my enjoyment.
 
Cleaning out old email

I remember the green sweater you were wearing
The first time I took you

Now that is ironic.
I picked that up that sweater in dollar a pound
In Boston. It was scheduled to be made into rags

The color was loud, vivid kelley green
And you, who have always stressed
The other side of our common heritage
Should realize that I could never have worn that
Without my English, German Scotch skin

This is what I remember:
You taking my hand and placing it
On top of your jeans
looking fiercely into my eyes
And later
when you groaned God, I want you so much

You know, I probably still have that sweater.
 
I remember the green sweater you were wearing
The first time I took you

Now that is ironic.
I picked that up that sweater in dollar a pound
In Boston. It was scheduled to be made into rags

The color was loud, vivid kelley green
And you, who have always stressed
The other side of our common heritage
Should realize that I could never have worn that
Without my English, German Scotch skin

This is what I remember:
You taking my hand and placing it
On top of your jeans
looking fiercely into my eyes
And later
when you groaned God, I want you so much

You know, I probably still have that sweater.

This is really, really good, although I might have left out the last line. The penultimate line is a great climax to the poem and, well, you know.
 
Silk
After seeing a stack of “Fifty Shades of Grey” in the supermarket.

A tie is not quite right.
Better would be a scarf, knotted
loosely, so as not to damage
the delicate fabric. And not gray,
never gray. You revel in color
the way all flowers do;
it opens your beauty
like a bloom. This last—
I will not cover your eyes.
They speak as eloquently
to me as those little feline cries.
 
Tea

The taste of mint tingles, don’t you think?
I’m not sure, you say
I take a mouthful of my brew, still quite hot
And then stir it with you
My tongue tracing like
A curious fish exploring a submarine
Your fingers get heavier on my shoulder
Then I swallow
 
Silk
After seeing a stack of “Fifty Shades of Grey” in the supermarket.

A tie is not quite right.
Better would be a scarf, knotted
loosely, so as not to damage
the delicate fabric. And not gray,
never gray. You revel in color
the way all flowers do;
it opens your beauty
like a bloom. This last—
I will not cover your eyes.
They speak as eloquently
to me as those little feline cries.

I showed this to my wife yesterday. She said she liked it and even read it again this morning. You have a new fan.
 
Answer

I chose Amsterdam
because I like to walk along the water
with a woman I care for. Perhaps
because we are all born asea,
rising out of fluid into air.

I need the ocean, a river, at least
a murky canal reflecting
all that I hope will become is
somewhere beyond this walk,
my hand enclosing yours
like an unvoiced promise.

It could have been Paris, I suppose,
but the Seine is too wide
for my confidence
and everyone knows
it is the City of Love.
I needed to talk to you first,
and the Dutch are always practical.

Venice would have worked—
but, though beautiful, it is sinking
and that just seems so wrong
as metaphor.

Do not even mention Reykjavik,
capital of Iceland.

The clincher is the steep staircase
in our rented huis. Why, politely,
I let you ascend first.
Why I am quite dazed to follow.
 
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An Older Poem, revised some

She Stoops to Conquer

She stands before him
eyes cast down,
a sleeveless dress her
long arms bare
skinned silken flesh.
She's close enough
for him to breathe her
fragrant hair is smooth
and fresh, her eyes
cast down.

Essence of a lemon grove,
Palermo warm and green
the top note fades
a tangy ocean taste
below the musky forest
elemental woman
earth is powerful her eyes

cast down the knowing
smile curving her lips,
points teasing fabric shifting
arc of hips she stands
before him still

her offering a fury
barely under check
and parting lips her breath
bare whispers, answers

yes.
 
Messy braid

Face flushed
as if she sprinted
in her red gladiator sandals
to catch this train

The woman collapses
into the seat in front of me
shoulders heaving

Her hair paints detail
in bunches and strands
freed just minutes ago when

he slid strong fingers
back along the pulse of her temple
dug his fingers deep
into her white scalp

and unleashed her perfect chestnut braid
when he pulled out from the silken nest
to zip up his fly.
 
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That Girl in the Sundress

does not resemble you—
her hair is too straight, too light
to be your dark, rich waves.
She is too young, too blank
in experience of life
to taste like the wine of your kiss,
your conversation. But she is bare,
or nearly so, and her beautiful
shoulders and slim, tanned legs
make me think of sex, and so,
the way a grainy photograph
must serve at times for soul,
this is why—how—she becomes you.
 
You Said

Every time I catch
a glimpse of slender
arms, strong in a most
feminine sleekness
I remember mine
captured at my breasts
between your chest
and me as you turned
and bent your neck
to whisper details
just for me, you said.
You taste like honey
sucked from a spoon,
you said my arousal
never failed to turn
you on you said
I was sex on legs
and when they locked
over your back as I
took every inch
of your cock and begged
for harder you said -
you said you couldn't
last longer. You said
you simply wanted
to fuck me again.
 
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The white girl in the low slung yoga pants
Has an dangerous ass
Tight, rolling under her waist
Like two balloons filled with jello
Her walk sings voom bam bam voom
Each step dimpling her naked flesh at the waist
Your eyes strain for the V
of a panty line
which you will not find
 
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