serves up my heart

March 22, 2020

She walks into my life legs first, a long drink of water in the desert of my thirties. Her shoes are red; her eyes are green. She’s an Italian flag in occupied territory, and I fall for her like Paris. She mixes my metaphors like a martini and serves up my heart tartare. They all do. Every time. They have to. It’s that kind of story.

Catherynne M. Valente
The Bread We Eat in Dreams

like a mad-thing

March 21, 2020

She said: ‘I want you breathless. I want to hear your heartbeat racing like a mad-thing. I want to be the storm that enters you life through an open window in you soul.’

Whisper

March 19, 2020

She catches the whisper between my demon and my desire.

Paul Valéry
Laura

Sex Has a Way

March 10, 2020

Sex has a way of softening limbs,
oiling joints and melding hearts.

We burrow in closer
wrapping arms and legs over and under each other.

Earthy blanket of sleep covers us
two bodies releasing one breath.

Finding home,
coiled and tucked in each other’s sweat.

Wendy Lee

Such an androgynous teen. Old men desired me because of it. I could be so pretty, so easily fetishized – compliant and submissive to their darker needs and desires. One of them called me “a wild tigress”, and his greedy eyes seemed to see to my soul.

To them I was a tease – provocative – an open invitation: and they were are all hunger and expectation. I was the whiff of helium that made them light-headed. They prowled afternoon cinemas, silent and starving, like wolves seeking fresh prey. On rainy afternoons during the long summer vacation, I would frequent the local cinemas, those dream palaces, like a feast of innocence waiting to be tasted.

‘Could I get you an ice cream?’ Their voices trembling slightly as they asked the question during the interval, each one heavily superimposed on the other in my memory. ‘Yes, I’d love that. An ice cream tub, please…’

Their eyes were always cautious but filled with an old wish. They’d do almost anything to touch my pearl white body beneath my clothes. They were all the same – all suffering the same exquisite distress. The same, perhaps, unexpected lust. I am, after all, Spring to their Winter.

Later, in the darkened auditorium, a hesitant hand on my trouser fly – as if it were a page to be turned, opened, in an act of discovery that would leave him/them breathless.

Fingers on my face, tracing the curve of my baby mouth. Then lips brushing lips and gently his/their tongue/s entering my mouth. Always the same. The same loud exhalation of breath, the noise of our aching lives.

Their trembling fingers, I must admit, gave me a huge sense of power over them, these men. They trembled like leaves in a wind under a fading moon. My body had power. It turned their heads, made them foolish. So much so, they’d offer money to get what they wanted.

And I’d accept. I’d let my mind wander, separate from them, just a short walk away – but just far enough.

Dive bomb clusters of kisses followed. I would play my part, of course. Unpredictable, wild, dangerous – beautiful, even. And yes, I would suck them, each in turn, cradle them on my tongue, tenderly, then in to the private cave of my mouth, I’d take them. And like wolves they would silently howl at the moon, sway with the tides, pull, bite, claw this offering of flesh while I sucked them slowly dry –

Welcome Home

January 15, 2020

Every mouth you’ve ever kissed
was just practice
all the bodies you’ve ever undressed
and ploughed in to
were preparing you for me.
i don’t mind tasting them in the
memory of your mouth
they were a long hall way
a door half open
a single suit case still on the conveyor belt
was it a long journey?
Did it take you long to find me?
You’re here now,
welcome home.

Warsan Shire

I was mistaken

January 12, 2020

I was mistaken
when I said you
live in my heart.
How absurd I was
when you live in my
fingertips so that everything
I touch is you. How foolish
I was when you live in my toes
so that everywhere I go there’s you.
How senseless of me to say
you live in my heart
when you breathe in my lungs,
walk on my mind, and
drink in my mouth. I came to
pen another poem for you,
but even every unwritten poem
is you.

Kamand Kojouri

melt into me

January 9, 2020

Afterward she lies nestled against me, her hair tickling my face. I stroke her lightly, memorizing her body. I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin.

Sara Gruen
Water for Elephants

Love Poem to a Butch Woman

December 31, 2019

This is how it is with me:
so strong, I want to draw the egg
from your womb and nourish it in my own.
I want to mother your child made only
of us, of me, you: no borrowed seed
from any man. I want to re-fashion
the matrix of creation, make a human being
from the human love that passes between
our bodies. Sweetheart, this is how it is:
when you emerge from the bedroom
in a clean cotton shirt, sleeves pushed back
over forearms, scented with cologne
from an amber bottle — I want to open
my heart, the brightest aching slit
of my soul, receive your pearl.
I watch your hands, wait for the sign
that means you’ll touch me,
open me, fill me; wait for that moment
when your desire leaps inside me.

Deborah A. Miranda

Christmas Orgy

December 18, 2019

Surrounded by women smelling of wildflowers. Daughters, mothers, wives in various stages of undress. In this place, like a shark-filled moat, expectation is running high – but disappointment lurks around every corner.

‘Why do you do it?’ a friend once asked me. ‘Sex with total strangers? Why?’

‘I desire more,’ was all I could answer. ‘Perhaps I’m seeking Narnia, trying to find the right closet door?’

Sweet woman all shapes and sizes in this huge, mattress-lined room. They are full of grace and naughty thoughts. Naked males with hard bodies, some with pot bellies, cocks swaying as they move, offer drinks, cocktails to the women they most desire.

Always, to begin, there is this hesitation. The desire to couple with someone who is the wife, husband, lover of another. Passions held taut beneath loose bellies. Everyone wanting more out of today than yesterday, or the day before that.

A woman with a strawberry birthmark on her thigh kisses me. Our tongues become two snakes making love. Gentle fingers stair-stepping in descent to stiff cock. Teasing swollen head and balls, mercilessly. We crumple together on a mattress and she spreads wide for my face; for my greedy tongue. On the next mattress I see the jutting hip bones of some boy thrusting, his partner old enough to be his grandmother. Perhaps older.

I wonder how many of these women fake their orgasms? Many are here because their husbands are here; it’s expected of them. To give themselves to strangers.

Slow, fast, gentle, rough, naked bodies entwine. The mattresses become swamps to roll in. Constant tugging on my cock as I lick between spread legs – I feel myself stretching and fear I may come loose in her terrible grip –

Saturated with desire so many bodies are now barbarously connected around us.

Tantalized by her soft flesh I drive into her, become one with her. Become a rattle of pleasure deep in her throat. She stretches her white neck back and takes a deep breath once, twice, three times, her hands like small animal claws on my back.

A fiery bubble explodes deep inside my head – the rhythm of her breathing in my ears is all I hear, her face brightening from that moment of bliss is all I see. But I know too she is a simple spark about to go out – it is always this way.

Always, this voracious feeding on vulnerability, this cannibalising of naked souls. We are a room full of Vampires. That and nothing more –