Bit of scruff? My cheeks, your pubes; when we come
together can’t tell where one ends, where one
begins. You can tell where my tongue ends. Hum
of my lips on your lips. Your low, “damn, son,”
as I carry more than a tune. Turning,
lifting, touching, fingers sliding in fat
back there. Toes curling. Go with it, stirring
trouble between your legs. Calling me brat
each time your hips jerk. Call me sir each time
you cry, “amen!” like applause. Night before
I come over I don’t shave. Feel that scratch.
DJ’s sick turntable tricks work sublime
on your clit. Time enough for an encore;
a tune that I call tongue-fucking your snatch.