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Everyday Erotica

Rain

It rained the first time we kissed.
Hesitant tongues and wandering limbs
Wet, steamy, sweaty kisses
It's been raining ever since.
 
Safeway

The closest we get
to intimacy

is when she asks for my birth date
to clear the register

when I buy beer or wine.
My attraction to her is as much

shared age as looks—
I like that she's letting her hair

go gray, that she's not quite slim,
that still she wears earrings,

dangling ones, that idly make me think
I might kiss around her ears

as if trying to remind her
of her youth and those acts that embarrass her,

now that she is older.
That she has, or had, a husband or

perhaps a wife, perhaps children
old enough to argue politics with me,

doesn't matter. I like her looks,
the feminine sound of her voice, asking

What's your birthdate?
Then, the nimbleness of her fingers

as she types those six digits in.
It's like a kind of love. Or not.

But it's sure something, anyway.
 
Obsession

She dances. So I watch her feet.
They trip and turn and pirouette;
I trace the syncopated beat
she dances so. I watch her feet
and watching her is bittersweet—
she's perfect, a Rodin maquette
that dances, so I watch her feet,
each trip and turn, each pirouette.
 
Attraction

Love is friendship. Just with less clothes,
which makes it far more brilliant.
―Elizabeth Hunter

It's just her words, not photographs,
that ultimately get me hot.
The things she says that make me laugh
more than her unclothed photographs
(though those are sweet) choreograph
how I'm left sexually distraught
by simple words. The photographs
just add to it. In megawatts.

.
 
The myth of the concubine

He had sex with an Asian woman.
Love was not involved, a purely
physical and pecuniary transaction,
if money can ever be pure.

A woman, no longer a girl
and the only things that
he can recall are the
softness of her skin and
a professional massage
after the preliminaries
were dispensed with.
 
Frottage Poem

This feels so good, it loses me for words,
mixing our precum at the very tips,
edging our cocks until we near release.

Positioned in the king of clubs, we stroke
our cocks together, touching frenulums
as abstract lust transitions into cum.

I use your load to go a faster speed,
and blow my own all over your thick head,
and then I feel so weightless I can't stand.
 
Souvenir

I watched her wipe the sweat
from our lovemaking

off her brow
with a towel I have kept,

damp as it was,
safe in the bottom drawer

of my dresser, because
it holds, at least, her perspiration,

and her lithe and sinuous body
is now a very longtime gone.

.
 
Not strictly ballroom

She loved to tango with my cum
leaking into her postage stamp
thong saying it lubricated her splits.
Afterwards, I'd lick her clean and
then fill her up once more.
 
Need

The taste of her remains
on my lips and tongue
like some exotic spice,
burning a memory and madness.

To look up and see her arching neck,
the bridge to her beauty, to feel her
taut thighs tensing under my hands,
the need in me twitches tactlessly.

Her moans and cries wake me
to find an empty bed and
an unmanageable monument.

It is a tangible tenderness,
an actual ache that stays
with me all day, an urgency
only she can salve with her
warm presence beneath me,
her legs wrapping my eagerness
and her gasps of pleasure.
 
Depth

I woke playing with you this morning
your ass as open to my fingers
as your ear is to my whispers
of need and desire
Would that I had a cock to give you
in these moments when you want
me with an visceral ache
to massage that spot
My touch does not reach so deep
that you could be soothed
by my intimate insinuations
and digital manipulation
My desire is to pleasure you
and fill those wanting gaps
in our love making tastes
that our lips devour.
 
I want to articulate desire
scribe some avant garde poetic lines
swirled calligraphy
describing the taste of my own demise

tasting feminine mystique
a tour de-force of mans ruin
accepted with open armed
destruction
etching my name on your lips
and you on mine

I never gained verbal consent
nor a contractual exchange
but you acquieced
to the ferver of you own wet
thoughts kneeling
tearing my zipper open
there was no concern for my consent
just the thoughts of your own demands
and the thrust of my acceptance
 
The Word "Ablution," Used Ironically

I was in bed, half asleep,
when he laid his beautiful cock
on the bedstand

half-erect. I managed to tongue
him a bit, circling
the head, but

I was very tired
and left him unsatisfied.
I made up for that,

oh yes, the next morning
when I washed and washed all him.
Oh yes. Oh. Yes.
 
this is a supple couplet

The first verse is also memorable

it just pours out of you, to our delight
 
Kiss Me

Sometimes you part my lips,
Like a familiar road,
My cunt,
The sea.
You taste my tongue,
Like it is the sky,
My clit,
Your own.
You make a metaphor of my mouth,
A messenger,
A meteor,
A myth.
You make me ache,
Imagine,
Move,
Hope.
 
Which of these two poems is better?

I wrote #1 and thought it was done, but then I read it to the man who inspired it and he said it felt unfinished to him, so I kept working on it.

Then I submitted it for publication here and it’s taking like 8 years to be approved by a moderator, so I just keep rewriting it and rewriting it.

Now I just reread the first one posted earlier here and it feels perfectly finished to me, on top of which, I think I just like it better.

But, I don’t know. Anyone feel like sharing your opinion?

#1

Kiss Me

Sometimes you part my lips,
Like a familiar road,
My cunt,
The sea.
You taste my tongue,
Like it is the sky,
My clit,
Your own.
You make a metaphor of my mouth,
A messenger,
A meteor,
A myth.
You make me ache,
Imagine,
Move,
Hope.


#2.

My Mouth, Your Cunt

Sometimes you part my lips with yours.
Like they are a familiar road.
Like my cunt. Your hair. The ocean.
You taste my tongue with yours.
Like I am your moon, we are your sky.
Like my clit. Your lunch. The sunrise.
You make a metaphor of my mouth.
A messenger. A meteor. A myth.
You tickle, and tease, and take me.
Make me: imagine you there, feel you there.
Need you: inside me there, and elsewhere there.
Above me there. And below me there.
Make me hope for it there.
Ache for it there.
Ask for it there.
Know it there.
 
Last edited:
It's been a long time,
longer than I care to mention
since she spread me with
an experienced finger.
Was it the unknown or
what I had smoked
caused acquiescence to her
questing tongue and
immediately omg, omg OMG?!!!!
 
I like both poems, Psyche, but I think the line "You make a metaphor of my mouth" is unnecessary. The poems would be more effective, in my opinion, if you let the reader infer the implicit metaphor created by the lines that follow this one. Enjoyed them both. -- Cal Y. Pygia
 
AlotLikePsyche said:
Which of these two poems is better?

I wrote #1 and thought it was done, but then I read it to the man who inspired it and he said it felt unfinished to him, so I kept working on it.

Then I submitted it for publication here and it’s taking like 8 years to be approved by a moderator, so I just keep rewriting it and rewriting it.

Now I just reread the first one posted earlier here and it feels perfectly finished to me, on top of which, I think I just like it better.

But, I don’t know. Anyone feel like sharing your opinion?
Click to expand...

I like the first one. It feels better and leaves more room for the reader.

I also like the suggestion regarding the metaphor line, it seems like you could just drop the "a metaphor of" and let it read simply, "You make my mouth..."

It's intense and we don't really want kisses to feel finished, do we?
 
"Later my anklets would dance a raga
Tiny bells jingling
beneath my crimson toenails
on your shoulders"

This is a very tasty stanza, Desejo . . . . and "the white girl in the yoga pants . . . is a clever and erotic poem.

If it weren't so cold here I would be looking for panty lines for the rest of the day:)
 
"Was it the unknown or
what I had smoked"

The question we have been asking since Enki walked the ancient paths of earth
 
Thank you!

Dr. Groove said:
I like the first one. It feels better and leaves more room for the reader.

I also like the suggestion regarding the metaphor line, it seems like you could just drop the "a metaphor of" and let it read simply, "You make my mouth..."

It's intense and we don't really want kisses to feel finished, do we?
Click to expand...

Now that you mention it, no, not really.

And he usually does NOT go down on me after he kisses me in this very intentionally suggestive way, which is obviously cruel and unusual, and very much UN-fucking-finished in my mind...

But, I’m getting off topic, so.

Thank you both, doc and cal, for the feedback. It’s my first time to ask for some, and get some, so it is meaningful to me that you replied and helped. It makes me feel like a real poet. So, thank you for that.

I took your advice and landed on this. I like it better now.

Kissing You

Sometimes you part my lips,
Like a familiar road,
My cunt,
Your hair,
The ocean.
You taste my tongue,
Like it is the sky,
My clit,
Your own.
You make my mouth,
A messenger,
A meteor,
A myth.
Make me ache for it.
Hope for it.
Imagine it.
Know it.
 
Tzara said:
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.
Click to expand...

perfect, professional, publishable, prick-teasing, penetrating
 
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