Tantric Manhattan

[_Land]

This series of poems are about moments of eroticism in Manhattan where time slows, detail deepens, and something sacred stirs beneath the surface.
It’s not porn. It’s presence.

I have not completely edited this series and I'm still working on quite a few of them...

But would love to hear feedback.

I hope that the poetry carries some of the grit and the beauty that is Manhattan and the souls that exist in that jungle of metaphor.

There's a lot of editing work still to do and I'm not satisfied with how some of the poetry is coming out...

It's extremely hard to do a series like this without overlap and cliche

To keep originality and poetry in a form that reflects my voice my style.

I found it to be a struggle to put together series of poems that have any real length or constraints to what I want the series to be.

In this particular series every poem is tied to the F train...

 

[_Land]

West 4th — Interracial Lovers
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

She was the color
of roasted night,
thighs damp from city heat,
slick beneath her dress
like secrets in summer.

He tasted like drywall—
fresh paint
and something beneath it
crumbling.

Her back hit tile,
not because he pressed,
but because she refused
to give him room.

No breathless sounds.
Just the slide
of her knee
between his legs
while traffic hissed
like wet brakes
above them.

She didn’t take off her underwear.
She moved it—
sharp and practiced.

He pushed in
and hissed
not because it felt good,
but because the air changed.
Thicker.
Harder to breathe.

Her fingers dug into his arm—
not as clutch,
but leverage.
She held him still
and moved herself.

She used him.
But with care.
Like turning a key
that isn’t hers to keep.

His mouth opened
once—
to say something
that didn’t matter.

She spit on the floor
before she left.
Not out of disgust.
Just habit.

He stayed there,
zip open,
pulse off-beat.
Like he'd been
rearranged.

The F train roared beneath—
not as metaphor.
Just timing.

 

[_Land]

Delancey Street — Best Friends
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

They sat in the diner booth
like always—
shoulders grazing,
coffee cooling.

Rain tapped the window.
She didn’t look up.

Her fingers slid
under the table
and found
bare skin.

He wasn’t surprised.
He spread his legs
an inch.
No more.

Her hand moved slow—
knuckles grazing denim,
the way you check
for heat
without touching the stove.

No words.
No eye contact.
Just the drag
of her nails
along the outline.

He stayed still
except for his breath—
short now.
Pavement-wet.
Alive.

She palmed him through jeans,
pressure tight,
rhythm quiet,
like she was scrolling
through something
she shouldn’t see.

He twitched once.
She stopped.

Let the silence hang
between sugar packets
and second thoughts.

Then zipped him open.
No warning.

She held him in her hand
like it wasn’t new.
Like it had always been hers
and she just
forgot to mention it.

He looked at the salt shaker.
She stared at the coffee.
Nothing moved
except her wrist.

No climax.
No ending.
Just heat,
contained.

When the waitress came,
they said nothing.
She poured more coffee.
He stirred it
with a shaking hand.

The table still smelled
like decision.

Outside,
the signal changed.

Below,
the F train passed—
rattling bones,
wet steel,
want.

They didn’t touch again.
They were already
riding.

 

[_Land]

2nd Avenue — Glory Hole
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

The stall smelled like bleach
and piss and yesterday.
The clean
that can’t quite erase
what happened here.

The hole was worn smooth.
Familiar.
Fingered open
by men who needed
more than eye contact.

He knelt.
Out of design,
the angle
the city taught him.

The cock entered slow—
uncertain,
half-hard,
smelling of soap
and sweat
and something
just finished.

He didn’t ask.
He didn’t speak.
He opened his mouth
a door
with no lock.

The man on the other side
held still.
Then pushed.
breathing out
like he’d been holding
the city
in his chest
all day.

He worked the shaft
with the rhythm
of someone
who’s done this
enough
to mean it.

No spit.
Just breath.
want
rising naturally
from somewhere deeper.

He didn’t gag.
Didn’t hum.
Didn’t dramatize.

He took it
like silence
takes sound—
whole,
without permission.

When it pulsed—
not climax,
just pressure shifting—
he pulled back.
Let it rest
against his cheek.
The weight of it.
Warm.
Human.
Unlabeled.

He kissed the head
once.
No tongue.
Just contact.
Then disappeared
before thanks
could ruin it.

Outside,
the bar lights flickered
in rhythm with the neon crosswalk.

And under it all,
the F train wailed
through its dark mouth,
carrying need

 

[_Land]

Christopher Street — Drag Queen
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

The wig’s off.
Her scalp still stings
from the pull of persona.
Makeup smeared,
from sweat,
from tongue,
from time.

He stood in the doorway
long enough
for silence to turn humid.
She didn’t invite him in.
She just opened her robe
like a velvet curtain
and stepped back.

The tuck was gone.
The illusion, undone.
What remained
was harder.
Heavier.
Truer.

He kissed her,
neck first.
Where the glue had held
her glamour tight.
Now raw.
Now red.

His hands didn't hesitate.
They gripped her thighs
like handles
on something sacred.

She spread her legs
on the green room floor,
sequins still stuck
to the backs of her knees.

His mouth found
what others ignored—
the place where gender
became geography,
mapped
with tongue
and open palms.

She moaned
once—
not pleasure,
but release.
a corset
being unlaced
from the inside.

He slid inside,
intentional
every inch
permission
and proof.

Their bodies collided
truths who waited too long
to be believed.

No dirty talk.
No theater.
Just breath.
And weight.

When she came,
her hand never left his throat.
Not choking—
anchoring.

Afterward,
she lit a cigarette
with lashes still crooked,
and said nothing.

He tucked her bra
into his coat pocket.
A souvenir.
Not of drag.
Of her.

Below,
the F train opened its doors.
No destination announced.
Just a hiss,
and welcome.

 

[_Land]

Bryant Park — Married Man
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

He told his wife
he had a meeting.
And in a way,
he did.

A paper cup in one hand,
his ring tapped the rim
with nervous rhythm.
The other hand
slipped into the jacket pocket
where her number
was inked on receipt paper—
soft with folding.

She arrived
silent,
like she knew
not to interrupt
a man falling apart.

No words.
No kiss.
Just his hand
sliding over her ass
like a man
tracing furniture
in a room he wasn’t allowed
to enter.

They didn’t walk far.
Just past the backs of tourists
and past lovers
eating salads with earbuds in.

She pushed him
into the stone mouth
of a locked service stairwell—
cool air
and rust.

His belt came loose
with a sigh
he hadn’t earned.

She didn’t undress.
She just turned,
lifted her skirt,
and waited.

He didn’t say thank you.
Didn’t say sorry.
Just pushed in
like a man
running late
to himself.

The ring stayed on.
Pressed tight
to her hip
every thrust,
scraping skin
like proof.

She reached back
once
to touch his face—
Just to feel
if he was still there
or already gone again.

He finished
into her silence,
face buried in her shoulder
his quiet confession
trembling

She adjusted her skirt.
He wiped his brow.
No goodbye.
No kiss.

Just the ring,
glistening with sweat,
glinting
as the city swallowed them back.

Below,
the F train hissed
through tile and time.
Taking them both
to places
they couldn’t speak of—
but needed
all the same.

 

[_Land]

Flatbush Avenue — Sex Worker
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

He paid in cash.
Crisp.
Folded.
Counted twice,
but not questioned.

She didn’t ask his name—
just motioned with her chin
toward the narrow stairs
behind the bodega.

The hallway smelled
like sweat and bleach.
Still,
he reached for her hand
like it was instinct.
She didn’t pull away—

The room was small.
One window.
No curtains.
One mattress.
No sheets.

She took her shirt off
with the silence
of someone
who’s been watched before—
and survived it.

He undressed slower,
not shy—
uncertain
if he deserved the whole hour.

She climbed on top
like the city itself—
knees planted,
eyes dry,
mouth closed,
but present.

Her hips didn’t roll.
They pressed.
Measured.
Ground down
until he forgot
why he came
in the first place.

Her hands on his chest
weren’t tender.
They were steady.
keeping him
from floating
into the wrong kind of thought.

No moaning.
No theatrics.
Just rhythm.
Deliberate.
Almost medicinal.

When he reached for her face,
she let him.
Not permission—
control.
She stared back
and held him in place
with a gaze
that didn’t blink
or soften.

And when it ended—
with space returning
between skin.

He dressed without rushing.
Left the bills
on the radiator.

She lit a cigarette,
curled on the corner
of the mattress,
and watched the smoke
find the one crack
in the ceiling.

Below,
the F train rolled through
its own dark tunnel.

Some passengers
paid to arrive.
Some just needed
to be touched
without being kept.

 

[_Land]

East Broadway — Gay Boi
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

He waited behind the deli
where the light hit dirty yellow,
where no one looked
unless they needed something.

First kiss was a dare.
Second was quieter.
By the third,
his back was pressed
to the dented metal door.

The man was older.
Not by much.
Just enough.

His jeans were already open.
Not because he was fast—
because he was ready.
Had been
for years.

The first touch
wasn’t hot.
It was electric.
His body
waiting
for the code
to unlock it.

Tongue slid
along his jaw
chalk marking
a new border.
No flinch.
He tilted.
Exposing more.

Hands in his briefs
a new language
he hadn’t studied
but already spoke.

His hips jerked—
not surprise,
recognition.
That someone
wasn’t afraid
of where he softened.

The man went down,
the practiced ease
of seasoned travel

When he came—
For just a split-second
his body
forgot to lie—
his fingers gripped
rusted steel
until blood rose
in half-moons.

He laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because he was still here.

Below,
the F train shuddered
through its tunnel—
a sigh,
a secret,
a boy
finally
riding.

 

[_Land]

St. Mark’s Place — Tattoo Parlor After Hours
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

The last client was done.
The floor swept.
The machine silent,
still sticky with antiseptic and sin.

She sat shirtless in the chair—
bandage blooming
just under her ribcage,
a line of thorns
still pink from truth.

He didn't ask if she wanted more.
She pulled her jeans down to her thighs.
Turned.
Bent.
Waited.

The gloves stayed on.
Vinyl against the curve
of her ass,
pressing, parting,
his fingers tracing outlines
not meant to be drawn—
just felt.

Her skin shivered
like something hunted.
But her breath stayed steady.

No moans.
No gasps.
Only the wet sound
of fingers sliding deeper
into heat that pulsed
like fresh ink.

Her palms gripped the chair—
anchoring.
The sting
was real.
So was the stretch.
So was the ache
to be split
and still held together.

He gripped the back of her neck
and didn’t let go.
She pushed back
against his hand
with the kind of trust
that never speaks.

When he slipped in,
it was the first tap of the needle
etching ache
outlining form

the sound
the first drop of ink
hitting sterile metal.

He didn’t speak.
Neither did she.

She clenched around him
trying
to trap the moment—
hold it inside
long enough
to scar.

When it ended,
she didn’t ask for a towel.
He didn’t offer.

She stood,
pulled her jeans up
without looking back,
and taped the edge
of her new tattoo
like sealing a spell.

Outside,
the street was still damp
from a rain
no one remembered.

And underground,
the F train opened its doors—
ready to carry them
home,
marked,
and still unfinished.

 

[_Land]

Times Square — The Old Woman & The Naked Cowboy
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

She takes the same red bleacher
every morning at ten.
Trail mix in one hand,
wrinkled fingers resting soft
on the plastic bag
like it might sing.

Below, he strums his guitar
in tight white briefs,
fabric drawn taut
over something
not still,
but composed.

Boots planted.
Chest bare.
Guitar slung low
enough to tease,
high enough to deny.

She doesn’t blink.
Just tracks the shift—
when he plants one foot forward,
and the cotton stretches,
just so,
revealing the bend
like a shadow learning to speak.

Her breath
moves shallow,
deliberate.
The kind saved
for high ceilings
and stained glass.

She adjusts her skirt.
Not to cool off.
To feel
the press of fabric
against her thighs.
She presses harder.

Kids laugh.
Tourists cheer.
Phones rise like offerings.
But she stays
still as stone,
gaze fixed.
Not on his smile.
On the weight
inside those briefs.

The white of them—
almost holy
against the grime of sidewalk.

A man dressed in nothing,
but not exposed.
A woman clothed in age,
but wide open
behind the eyes.

She chews one almond.
Slow.
Lingering
as if the salt on her tongue
came from him.

He turns.
Dances.
Moves on.
She doesn’t follow.
Just sits.
Still tasting
whatever it was
that shifted
beneath cotton
when he stepped into sun.

And under the concrete,
the F train pulls forward,
sheathed in shadow,
riding the rhythm
of everything
we pretend
we aren’t watching.

 

[_Land]

Alphabet City — The Junkie
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

She didn’t speak when he came in.
She was already lit—
eyes half-lidded,
mouth half-open,
veins soft and sweet
fruit gone ripe.

The spoon still warm.
The tie still loose.
The pleasure already
somewhere between
fever and fog.

He didn’t need to ask.
She pulled her panties aside
without looking up,
as if her body remembered him

His jeans dropped fast.
There was no ritual here—
just need.
Fast and full.

When he slid in,
she exhaled—
released.
The way a lung lets go
of something
it’s been holding
too long.

Her hand stayed wrapped
around the syringe—
not out of fear,
but habit.

He moved in her
with the rhythm
of someone chasing
a second high—
never quite as sharp
as the first,
but enough
to believe in.

Her head tipped back
against the radiator—
paint chipped,
heat off,
still hot from the day.

He touched her sternum
with two fingers—
felt her pulse
like a moth
trapped beneath glass.
It stuttered.
Then steadied.
Then vanished
into the rhythm
of their grind.

She didn’t close her eyes.
She watched the ceiling
like it might peel away
and show her
something holier


When he clenched—
his mouth opened
to say something
he didn’t believe.

He didn’t.

She blinked slow.
Not from love.
From the weight
of being entered
by someone
who left the door open
on his way in.

No kiss~
Just the sound
of her thighs sticking
to the vinyl chair
when she finally stood.

The F train below
moaned through
its rusted channel,
carrying its own
kind of hunger.

 

[_Land]

Midtown Penthouse — The Voyeur
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

He never touched them.
He just watched—
ten floors up,
barefoot on marble,
lights off,
blinds open
like confessionals.

Across the glass tower divide,
two bodies moved—
backs arching in slow rhythm,
a man’s hand tight
on another man’s throat,
their silhouettes
flickering
in time with traffic.

The voyeur leaned forward,
forehead to the window,
cock hard
untouched,
breath synced
with each thrust
he wasn’t part of.

He didn’t blink.
Not once.

The woman joined them
at the edge of the bed.
Her mouth moved over both,
her spine a ripple
he could feel
from across the void.

They laughed—
but it never reached him.
Only the shape of it.

He palmed the glass,
fingertips fogging
just enough
to smear a halo
around the act.

His own desire
pressed into the window
like frost,
but he didn’t stroke.
Didn’t move.
Just ached.

When they collapsed
in a tangle
of skin and exhaustion,
he stayed.

Watching.
Breathing.
Finished.
Full without contact.

The glass held his reflection—
bare,
erect,
silent—
not from shame,
but restraint

Below,
the F train rumbled
through its wet tunnel,
carrying strangers
who touched without feeling.

He had felt everything.
And no one had ever
touched him.

 

[_Land]

NYPL — Between the Stacks (Delta of Venus)
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

She chose the aisle
closest to the stairwell.
That’s where the hum rose
through the marble—
not loud,
but enough to feel the F train
move beneath her
like a memory
no one speaks aloud.

Delta of Venus
sat open in her lap.
Spine soft.
Page 47 creased
like a secret
that had been revisited
too many times.

> “She wanted his mouth everywhere,
she wanted to be bitten, scratched, marked.”

She read it once.
Paused.
Then read it again
with her hand already
parting her thighs.

No panties.
Intention, not accident.
She had come here
to be entered by language.

Two fingers.
Steady.
Each motion echoing
what the train below
was already doing—
steel through dark,
deliberate.

The book trembled.
Or maybe she did.

Her back pressed
against the spine of some dead philosopher
while her body
began writing
its own theory.

When the tremor came—
it wasn’t loud.
But it was known.
The page blurred.
Her hips stilled.

She wiped her hand
on the edge of her skirt.
Closed the book.
and left it
for the next woman
who needed
more than story.

And beneath her,
deep in the tunnels of the city,
the F train surged forward—
loud, wet, unrepentant—
carrying her pulse
into the dark
like it belonged there.

 

[_Land]

Times Square — Two Girls in Love
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

They stepped into Times Square
and the city bloomed around them—
billboards bleeding neon,
steam rising from manholes,
horns gasping through the grid.

Crowds spun by.
Screens shouted.
But they held hands
a gravity all their own.

One wore denim cutoffs
and a shirt soft from wear.
The other sipped iced coffee
between easy smiles.

She reached up,
tucked a strand of hair
behind her lover’s ear,
and kissed her—
full, slow,
lips pressing truth into the air
bright as the marquees around them.

The moment held.
Concrete caught its breath.
Even the blinking lights
seemed to slow.

She pulled her close,
forehead to forehead.
They laughed,
and the sound moved through the street
a current
pulling eyes and silence in its wake.

They turned south,
fingers still linked,
bodies lit by the pulse
of a city
that now carried their shape.

And below,
the F train carved its way forward—
deep, loud, certain—
hauling their kiss
through the tunnels
as if it belonged
to every girl
who still waits to be seen.

 

[_Land]

The Bar — No Cover, No Shame
Tantric Manhattan: Riding the F Train

The music pulled.
Bass in the walls,
vodka bloodstreams,
a rhythm designed
to break men open

He leaned against the edge of the bar,
a white tee stretched
across a chest
framed in poise

The man beside him didn’t speak.
He just moved closer,
elbow grazing forearm,
then still.

That one touch
carried the weight of years
folded behind closet doors.

They turned
and met face to face.
No flirt.
No smile.
Just breath.
Heavy.
Shared.

One hand moved to hip—
firm.
Certain.
And the other man stepped forward,
closing every gap

foreheads pressed.
lips brushed
slowly,
want blooming
between them
as the room dissolved
into body and pulse.

Fingers slid
under the hem of his shirt—

The kiss deepened,
from the recognition.
that tells a body
I see you
without asking who you were before.

The DJ dropped the next track.
Lights turned red.
Everything spun.

But they stayed still.
Two men holding each other
in a room
built for disappearing.


---

And below,
the F train gripped its rails—
pulling breath from steel,
carrying the weight
into the dark
with a rhythmic beat
all its own