Tag Archives: cunnilingus

fat palm

27 Monday Nov 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on fat palm

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Night wind in the trees; though I never heard
that din back then. Just your mewling quim qualm

cries with each flushed thrust while your lips puckered
and dripped. To pull back. To mark with fat palm,

the smack, the sting. Onto days; felt your burn
on my fingertips, melted deep in my hair —

I walked for days glazed in a world of stern
scorn, ghast hush, torn crush. You’re all of despair.

I of need. How do you say? High maintenance?
High greed? Come back, love. Return like clockwork.

Or, soul, don’t. Gods do not love indulgence,
just the noise that you give when your hips jerk.

We are nights with wind and trees and ozone.
We are the low crackle that breaks the stone.

hood

16 Thursday Nov 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on hood

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Perhaps it was the flavor — the essence —
the smell. Perhaps it was the study hall

after school — meant for our math and science
homework. With doors locked the sunlight would crawl

out from the windows. It strayed, meandered,
returned back to the spot where you straddled

my face, grinding, while you sang out the slurred
glories of my tongue. You convulsed, bejeweled

my cheeks, chin, lip until I swallowed you,
hodge-podge, all the while your clitoral hood

rubbed me raw. Perhaps it was in that zone
before we went home, cum-dazed, stuck like glue,

peeling yourself back that I understood,
dear friend, I could live on your cum alone.

potheadette

12 Tuesday Sep 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on potheadette

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Words that rhyme with grunt: we’ve been friends so long,
forthright, strong: rumble of vowel. I’ve throat-

fucked you so much that we’ve made your diphthong
skip groove. That noise that you make, that keynote.

It’s odd when the only thing in-between
me and our stranger is a ribbed condom.

Because we lured, with hash cakes, with obscene
talk, your new neighbor over. A threesome

when you should’ve been at school. By the third
bite you bit her neck, her clit, called her aunt.

You might call yourself a potheadette nerd
in a niqab, we both know what you want.

That sound that you make; unfettered, sloppy
with joy; my best friend, soaking wet, gushy.

red blunts

25 Friday Aug 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on red blunts

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Zonkered on bam bhosda, dust and cacao,
we lay in my backseat, cantaloupe ripe,

fragrant with cum and resin. What comes now
is what comes from gin, acid, a glass-pipe

marking out time during your late lunch hour.
August is the most lecherous of months.

Your, “dedo mi coño” — as I devour
you, pressed to my lips, my knuckles red blunts

stained deep inside — is more a foul-mouthed sigh.
In an hour we can accomplish so much

save the pauses in-between drags, swallows
and groans. With a wet-wipe you clean your thigh;

crawl to the front-seat to add blush, retouch
your lipstick, avoid your cocaine-ruined nose.

shlick

12 Saturday Aug 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on shlick

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Not like sleaze stopped us; with your loud, “Oh gosh!
Thish ish amashin! I’m ah shloppy mesh!”—

everyone listened to the slish, shlick, slosh
of my fingers pulling out from your flesh;

your long, “huuugh.” One frowned, shocked like a grown-up
at our public displays of affection.

One looked away as I sucked the syrup
of your mess clean. Yes, I am a glutton

for certain things, certain queer alchemies.
Yes, you slouched with legs splayed on the bus seat,

glowing, indifferent to the commuters
stares. Let them call these ancient acts filth, sleaze,

shame. Let them. We are part of the night’s heat
— full of mad, wet prayer and obscene odors.

honey boils

05 Monday Jun 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet, Uncategorized

≈ Comments Off on honey boils

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

Witness and recognize this; I’m RuPaul’s,
“Ladykins;” that which others will deny.

Prayer has its place. Worship is what enthralls
us back. I hear your confession and sigh,

what counts is devotion. We lick and probe;
a tongue thrusting out inside while honey

boils and you bite the sash of your bathrobe
with your low-beasty noise. Your, “¡ay, pappy!”

“¡Me voy a venir!” — I’m the slushiest
male; the sort of sissy that the gods bleed

bone dry; shaman of lisps and broken wrists.
You’re a buzzed butch — and you cum. Prayer and lust

are the same. All that need; like how we need
drag-king flings, how we need feminist trysts.

][][
Notes:
In Spanish, “Me voy a venir,” translates into, “I’m going to cum.” A drag-king is a female performance artists who dresses in masculine drag. Feminism is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

milking

26 Friday May 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on milking

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

You with the double-hung belly. You made

a sound like, “sissk,” each time I drained you dry.

We’ve played Asmodeus and the Milkmaid

far too often. For a week we were high

as fuck eating euphoriants — (bhang-bhang

and hash rolled in jam) which gave your breast milk

the odd taste of sweet kif, gin and ginseng —

while I sucked stains from inside your bra’s silk

after each of Harley’s feedings. Each romp

remained perverse; my head buried between

your thighs, fingers on your nipples, milking,

tripping balls, the bed shaking, you calling

out to the gods prayers devout and obscene

as you came; soaking my face like a swamp.

sheds

14 Monday Dec 2015

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on sheds

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Tonguing, leaving streaks between your cloven
lips, the spots where blushes and bruises bloom,

even during your heavy flow. Back then,
you said, you’d hide away in the bathroom.

Blood in your panties, soaked into your jeans,
and how everyone smirked. In the old tongue

even the word for menstruating means
hidden away, dashtani. “I was young,”

you said, “and Soviet-era tampons?
I’d just stay home.” Now you press on my face,

here in the bathtub, as your uterus
sheds. I have streaks on my chin, red and bronze,

my tongue working you to a state of grace,
delving deep between your clit and anus.

][][

In Armenian, the word for menstruating, dashtan, (դաշտան), is the same root word for separation, dashtani (դաշտանի).

claim

01 Tuesday Sep 2015

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on claim

Tags

, , ,

There’s those who want to be told that they’re good
— Specially in bed — Specially after

doing something bad. This code: “Spinsterhood,”
meaning — good or bad — I love you, sister.

Does it matter that we don’t look the same?
That you can’t take me anywhere? Come close,

I would like to whisper to you my claim.
The one that you can’t share. And yet, what glows

between your legs, in your throat, on your tongue
— I call it a gift — talent uncommon.

You’re a good, sister, even when naked.
Even when you’re more than bad, say, wicked.

I have tasted your passions — though I’m young
enough to be your child, if you had one.

sleet caked

27 Monday Jul 2015

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on sleet caked

Tags

, , , , ,

“An wha will mak me fidgin fain?
O wha will kiss me o’er again?”
– Robert Burns (1788)

“Feck thes!” Our breath, clouded. The car’s heater
struggled, even at high — In the back seat

next to the baby-chair, you stripped off your
mittens, pulled your jeans to your knees while sleet

caked the windshield. “Ah got tae gie ye back
tae skale in ‘en minutes, we’ll make it queck.”

Guiding my head down, my shoulders hunchbacked
while your snow-boots pressed into my stomach.

It took you eight; leaving me sick, your cum
in my eyebrows. Even after you cleaned

me up I was a mess all day long —
I’m older now. I’ve heard the joke: “Th’ Mum

an’ Th’ Neighbur Bairn.” The punchline: “Sex-fiends
ur made an’ education isnae wrang.”