Tag Archives: anal sex

bareback

21 Thursday Mar 2024

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Like this. The abyss yawned wide with jelly

honey smeared around the rim. Such event

horizons spawned from your thirst for nerdy,

fey boys. I’ve never been much except bent,

as in, curious. You called it your black

hole. “Je veux te sentir en moi.” Back when

strange new worlds meant more than just bareback

sex in the backseat. Since I wasn’t, “Men

who Suck,” I was safe, even if you weren’t.

All you adults and your Midlife crises

still faze me ⟺ middle school was spent in moans

⟺ slaphappy moans ⟺ one more pretty thing “learnt”

in singularities ⟺ “Like this” ⟺ how to please

supernovas and erogenous zones.

Note.

“Je veux te sentir en moi” translates into, “I want to feel you inside me.”

yaadilah

07 Thursday Jan 2021

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I signed you out of the Shiprock half-way

house to drive you to your rehab meeting.

 

You’d “come loose” again, so we skipped foreplay

and climbed into the backseat. “Anchoring,”

 

you called it; my cock buried in your ass.

Mud hook. Cumcocktion. Pain, sublimely raw,

 

pinning me between your twisting hourglass

hips, leaving you sprawled on top. “Yaadilah,”

 

you groan. Hints fill the air: creosote, sage,

far-flung thunder. Yaadilah. What The Fuck.

 

Anchoring you down is hard work. Not cold

turkey hard, of course, but still hard. Rough rage

 

fucking. Cum-smeared C-scar on your stomach.

Coming loose, the kids say. Gone, y’all, stone-cold.

][][

Note:

In Dine bizaad (Navajo), “Yaadilah,” is the equivalent of, “What The Fuck,” in English. The town of Shiprock (Naatʼáanii Nééz) is home to Diné College as well as the Northern Navajo Fair.

fettered

16 Wednesday Dec 2020

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Night frosts. Fettered gales. Sauna sun rise. Steam

fit for queens and concubines. After school

 

you came, brought her with talk of romps, extreme

and droll. “Not in her rump,” was your one rule

 

as I slipped out of you. “Only in mine.”

All day the sauna’s pine walls soaked up heat.

 

When you two arrived, frigid as frost’s shine,

we puffed and passed, shucking off our clothes. Cheat

 

ice-sleet like this. Mellow lay, they say. Stoned,

you laughed when she impaled herself. I laughed

 

when you kissed the spot where the two of us

joined. She laughed and came. Others have condoned

 

this. Meh. You asked to learn my queer witchcraft;

craft built from libertines and the Goddess.

madivine

10 Tuesday Nov 2020

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“Bad girl, good vibes,” your mum said. For a week

you slept between us, the curve of my cock

 

nestled against that wet cameltoe streak

etched deep in your panties. Let neighbors talk.

 

They called her Madivine. Puberty came

round. So did we. First: “Cum in mum,” she said

 

each time I pressed to split your mound. Nicknames

flew: “Mo ve fi, bon vib.” Natty dread,

 

indeed. Madivine: a priestess loving

priestess. Pressing me in you, in your blind

 

other Third Eye deep between your hourglass

hips. The one your mum tongued awake. Tonguing.

 

Gasping. Reckless. Wrecking you from behind.

My hands in your hair. My lust in your ass.

][][

NOTES:

Natty dread is a Rastafari term for a member of the Rastafari community. In Haitian Creole, “mo ve fi, bon vib,” translates as, “bad girl good vibes.” Madivine (also spelled Madivinaise) is a Haitian term for a lesbian voodoo priestess [citation needed].

glimmer

23 Wednesday Sep 2020

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Darkest night drawn to flesh, to forbidden
curves. You’re why I returned after your mom

banished me. Venus bitter sweet. “Christian
women don’t do that,” she said. Napalm

burns less than those words. “She won’t but I will.”
It’s why we’re both tensed, two bodies impaled

as one. Kisses that end in gasps. The thrill
of tough tongue lashes as you came, you wailed,

“For all that’s holy, harder!” Tongue to salve pain,
to salve darker things. My gnawing between

your hips. “Horny little demon,” she called
you. Ay, there’s the rub. “I’m your Fuckdoll Jane.”

You are while your mom works. We dream obscene.
My cock all glimmer. Your cunt cum-drenched bald.

epique

18 Thursday Jun 2020

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I stop tongue-fucking your cunt as you roll
over, gasp in pain, pressing your stomach

and breasts to frozen metal. Your asshole
gapes wide as my cock pushes in. “The fuck–?”

you gulp, amazed we’re in a war machine.
Wintertime in Muskegon is the worst,

but it does have an ancient submarine
no one visits. I adore love in cursed

places haunted with pain, where fear lingers
mixed with hints of petrol fumes, blood and brine.

In this frozen coffin the only heat
comes in floods: cock and cunt, kissing fingers.

Calling you love, calling you, “I, me, mine.”
Calling our thrills, “epique,” our deaths, “petite.”

][][

Notes:
I’ve written about this museum before, but in the lake-side city of Muskegon (about an hour from where I live) is the WW2-era submarine, USS Silversides. Since winters in Michigan are brutal and it’s difficult to heat an all-metal ship, visiting on those long dark frozen days of the year tend to be a touch frosty.

debauch

10 Wednesday Jun 2020

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Prayer, I say. Porn, you counter, reaching out
to rub my cock against your cheek. Disgust,

you gasp, down on all fours. I’m your devout
priest, my cock pressed tight against your tightest

hole. So slow, being filled with such spirit,
inch by inch. You arch your back and struggle

to breathe as I press deeper, as I split
you wide. Your dad said only a devil

would want all these wet shocks and aftershocks,
would want to moan, mew and writhe as I stir

inside you … like the porn you hate to watch
when we watch it together. Your dad mocks

what he doesn’t know. For me this is prayer;
your high priest when we praise and we debauch.

balampalampam

30 Saturday May 2020

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Behind the closed garage doors engine oil
fumes, touch of ganja, dust on the wainscot,

on a workbench piled high with odd gargoyle
lumps, unfinished tasks your husband forgot

about years ago. We’ve come here to play;
the grease spot on the floor mirrors our own

messy thoughts. Hair in rollers, negligee
cast down, my cock buried in the well-known,

well-loved well of your balampalampam.
This is, “kunou-monou;” what the obeah

vow, old-school sodomy. At sixty-five
strokes you shout, at ninety-five you melt. “Damn,

boy-boy,” you groan. “Damn, cum in me.” If we
sin its through love. If we love we survive.

][][

Notes:
I use Barbados slang in this poem. Balampalampam means a very large ass. Kunou-monou is a bewitching spell. Obeah is witchcraft.

fanny

10 Friday Apr 2020

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“Hurts,” you hiss, hoping the moppets won’t hear.
They sleep next to us. This is not new pain,

strange and supreme; just stretching, what Shakespeare
called, “the full length of my wit,” like cocaine

and all of our needs, deep in the, “marl’d earth,”
of your fanny. It’s the expansiveness––

what fear and endorphins bring, this rebirth
between gasping breath, dark realm of Eros

––that I adore. Like wit, not everyone
gets it; my sliding down, squeezing balls deep

in you. I’m a hungry ghost. You’re famished
for love, all love; even as your children

wake, to stare at you twisting in your sleep––
blind that one more time you’re being ravished.