forestorgy
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- Sep 3, 2005
- Posts
- 375
here is a great place for some poems about bi-sexual desires!
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Is this based on something that happened to you or something you want to happen?forestorgy said:bare,
three
big cocks
for
sucking
on a big rock,
in the middle of this woodland stream
covered in fallen leaves,
moss and chilled air
in the wine
cum big
white gobs
on chins
and kisses on lips
ears and
noses.
drunkenly
we crawl
back to our
tent and the girls
annaswirls said:wait, I dont think three constitutes orgy. I am not so good with numbers. surely wikopedia could help me with the destinction
Mon dieu, that IS hot, Eve.WickedEve said:My poem A Hot Sex Scene is about an orgy. I guess it could be straight, bi, or both. It was written in 2004 after a very vivid dream.
We have forgotten last rain--
wetness shunned beneath graves,
roadsides, while we walk breezeless dry.
I ask the strangers to turn out our sun,
but they smell of gasoline and sex,
fueling us with their want
as we lead them to the place:
cracked floors, bare and spread
from wall to window,
with straight backs,
no cushion or plush for pushing,
only wood--soon sweat,
skin and cling.
We watch the heat waving
between chairs, cocks,
and six penetrables.
Count them: three, four, five, sex.
Brown With Wide Smile,
shaved from toes to beneath arms,
trembles to Deep Sleek.
Someone whispers, Deep Sleek
from outside the window
where noon builds bonfires on our backs.
Wild Cry burns shadows out of the corner
till the place is solar.
Wild Cry is a palm presser,
bent and touching boards,
her one, two, three,
the only shade for him and him
and him, stroking far into the heat,
groaning ultraviolet, Fuck!
~
We are beckoned, sol blinded,
fire stirred and kissing the sun.
Yeah, I dreamed up a doozy there.neonurotic said:Mon dieu, that IS hot, Eve.
WickedEve said:My poem A Hot Sex Scene is about an orgy. I guess it could be straight, bi, or both. It was written in 2004 after a very vivid dream.
We have forgotten last rain--
wetness shunned beneath graves,
roadsides, while we walk breezeless dry.
I ask the strangers to turn out our sun,
but they smell of gasoline and sex,
fueling us with their want
as we lead them to the place:
cracked floors, bare and spread
from wall to window,
with straight backs,
no cushion or plush for pushing,
only wood--soon sweat,
skin and cling.
We watch the heat waving
between chairs, cocks,
and six penetrables.
Count them: three, four, five, sex.
Brown With Wide Smile,
shaved from toes to beneath arms,
trembles to Deep Sleek.
Someone whispers, Deep Sleek
from outside the window
where noon builds bonfires on our backs.
Wild Cry burns shadows out of the corner
till the place is solar.
Wild Cry is a palm presser,
bent and touching boards,
her one, two, three,
the only shade for him and him
and him, stroking far into the heat,
groaning ultraviolet, Fuck!
~
We are beckoned, sol blinded,
fire stirred and kissing the sun.