Tag Archives: cunnilingus

plagues

09 Tuesday Apr 2024

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You say you want to be seduced. I want

that, too. Not me. You. I want to seduce

you: with song, with soul, with the feral haunts

of your thwarted passions. I know the juice

you keep bottled between your legs, DJ.

Let us incantate: Kafé – Kasita –

non Kafela. “All these beats will obey

what these grooves/ demand. Bloody, raw

and in command.” Shall we dance, my spitfire?

Shall I taste all that runs between your legs?

This is my glamour’s glimmer. My coy please.

My pomp’s circumstances and rude desire.

We are what we play. For you lust plagues.

For me one irksome and vexing cock tease.

][][

Notes.

It starts with Bowie’s “I am a D.J., I am what I play.”

bestial

25 Sunday Feb 2024

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Shan’t know, I suppose. So I’ll go … I’m gone …

watch me, “went.” To find that blessed spot. Even

that sounds like a joke. Flesh Gordon. Sex Spawn.

Deep throat Nine. Whimsy, chaos & semen.

Even Leia’s, “Into the Garbage Chute,

Fly boy,” made you snicker; though sodomy

remains a tribal language. That & brute

passion, which is also a force. Your knees

around my neck. Your nails digging fjords

down my back. I tongue-fuck that spot & you

groan like the ravenous Bugblatter Beast

that you are. That spot? You hit the high chords

each time. Messy mirth is always taboo;

messy, whimsy, chaos with lips well-greased.

Note.

The Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal is a fictional monstrosity from, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. File it under: Other People’s Pillow Talk.

lavash

27 Wednesday Dec 2023

Posted by in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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There’s dough in my hair, flour on my fingers.

Lick them clean. These fingers. I’m leaving.

Kiss me clean. Obscene what this finger stirs

in you. All day long you’ve seen me making

flat bread. Lavash. Song of cracked wheat. Fable

of dough rolled flat, slapped against the Tonir’s

brick wall. The dead’s flat food and what the skull

won’t eat I will. Breathe in all these odors.

Simple smells at night fall imbued with grief.

When you make bread, you make me; when you roll

dough flat you touch me. I’m leaving; come clean

me one last time. My lips, my flesh, this brief

hint at soul. I’ll be ghostly so soon. Soul,

love me like this: obscene, obscene, obscene.

notes:

Lavash is a popular flat bread in Armenia. Tonir is a stone oven used to cook the bread, similar to an Indian Tandoor.

stirrin’

16 Friday Jun 2023

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Monsters are rare, being mostly sleazeball

dreams and inventions. To be infertile,

Crone of Raunchy Calves & Posh Booty Call

Shorts, is to be obscene. “What? This? Evil?

I’ve been doin’ this before you were born.

Wham bam, thank you, ma’am.” You cackle and pause.

“Men called me witch. Sappho called me pure porn.

I’ll call you … Raw meat.” For some, menopause

killed their libidos. For you? “These itches

get me drippin’,” you grin, spreading your heat

wide. “Scratch me right here, moon dog. My witch’s

cauldron demands … stirrin’.” You’re not discrete

as you scratch, like cum-sloshed selfies you send

to your children, dubbed, “Mom & Cub Offend.”

willendorf

05 Monday Jun 2023

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With my thick, awkward fingers you taught me

to plait your hair. Boundless hips like the earth,

you had said. Lizzo-fierce. Big Grrl sexy.

You can’t be a MILF without belly-birth

curves, thighs like mountains. Before work, after

your kids are at school, you’d drip, dark like plum

juice, like my tongue slick between, like a prayer

down for the Willendorf. Clits thrum, cunts cum,

you’d said. Neighbors talked, “look at them, howling

on her stoop, with some of the worst braided

cornrows ever.” They scowled, “and at her age?”

Fierce looks like many things, but fierce fucking

looks like this. Beyond rude. Beyond wicked.

Beyond the haters and all their daft rage.

][][

Notes:

Venus of Willendorf is a 30,000 year old statue, unearthed in 1908, and thought to be some sort of fertility idol by many male archaeologists at the time due to its, “exaggerated,” sexual features, and not, say, just simply erotic for desire’s own sake. This is why so many archaeologists are horrible at their jobs. When I refer to Lizzo as a, “goddess who walks among us,” what I mean is that she is revolutionary in the deepest sense of that term. She is giving voice and making change happen in a world toxic with body-shaming and fatphobia. She tells us, “I love normalizing the dimples in my butt or the lumps in my thighs or my back fat or my stretch marks. I love normalizing my Black-ass elbows. I think it’s beautiful.” Amen.

quenched

31 Wednesday May 2023

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This is not Whitman’s city of orgies,

flesh and funky like the poet declared.

This is a courtyard without grass or trees.

At night it’s the only space that we’ve dared

venture into. My mouth glued to your hard

nipples. Your tongue tangy from the cold-salt

of my skin. Kissing each finger, the scarred

flesh of my arms, each shiny pink-cobalt

slice. The world falls for hard men and soft boys;

since I’m neither I have no purpose here …

except to please you. Down the fire escape.

Against the wall. Haunted with city noise;

as in, your cunt quenched without shame or fear.

My ghost fingers. My cadaverous shape.

][][

Note:

The good, gray poet, Walt Whitman, once referred to Manhattan as, “the city of orgies,” which still makes me chortle whenever it comes up in conversation.

drive-thru

26 Friday May 2023

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Kissing at the red light you’d pull your scrubs

to your knees and let me inhale. What’s one

more stain to a nurse? Hints of Doms and Subs

had hit a nerve. “My husband isn’t fun

like that,” you murmured. After the drive-thru

I’d go down on you, tonguing inner thighs,

belly folds, cleavage and cleft. “Make me spew.”

And you did. A scent of girl cum, French fries

and pine would cling to me all day. Sluice rhymes.

Anxious breath. Things that adults did, I thought,

were weird. Was this cool? Fonzie-level cool?

Who knew? It was how we spent our lunchtimes.

You with this anxious child. “It’s our secret,”

you’d say, dropping me back at middle school.

][][

Notes:

With his trademark, “Ayyy,” dressed in a leather jacket and riding a motorcycle, Arthur Fonzarelli, better know as Fonzi or The Fonz, was a character from the 1970-80s TV show, Happy Days … and I was at that age where the pinnacle of cool had to be either David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust or Fonzi, even with that episode where he jumped the shark.

proclivity

22 Monday May 2023

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Paris. Twelve hour lay-over. Last gay club

before Peace Corps. “You’re gossamery,” she said.

“I like that in boys … Call me your Arab

Auntie.” O weird drag name, I thought, my head

between her thighs. And, because I was stoned

on cheap spliffs and she was Anaïs Nin cool

and I’d dreamed of being left unchaperoned

with a wolfish adult (“Primary School

Climax.” “School Bus Orgy.” “I was Seven

before I was Ate.”), her clit felt scrumptious

under my tongue. How queer, a real auntie

in this rank Men’s Room. One last Parisian

surprise before a world where lush lewdness

was less, “proclivity,” and more theory.

thralldom

18 Thursday May 2023

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Both of your thick, sick thighs and the scratchy

flick rope binding my wrists will leave bruises.

Good. I’m greedy for scars. You bend a knee

and wet heat, mixed with your musky juices,

sprinkles my lips. Mewl, I said, make me mewl.

I am famished for that; that sort of pain ––

your faith claims waits for me in hell. A cruel

candle will not last the night, you explain,

snuffing the hot wax out on my shoulder ––

I thought thralldom would be a bore. But what’s

the point of nerves if they don’t sing? Scars bunch

up and down my thighs where you have tortured

my flesh; a whipping boy for the flay’s cuts;

which is to say, I’ve grown hard to your touch.

adástsooʼ

14 Sunday May 2023

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Adááʼ (lip). Atsooʼ (tongue). I might not know

the words for for lust or thrust or that wet greased

growl that you make with jaws stretched as you show

me just how far I can go –– but at least

you taught me to say adástsooʼ. We mapped

out our bodies with skull-fucking, hair

pulling and the heat of the day still trapped

in the skin of your pickup. This is prayer

as well. Not Bilagáana or Dineh

prayer, but still holy. Something to drive nine

hundred miles for. Somewhere out in the owl’s

light a goat bleats. Tomorrow we will pray

again without the need for language, mine

or yours, just our untranslatable howls.

][][

Notes:

In Diné bizaad (the Navajo language), adástsooʼ is the word for the clit. Bilagáana is an older term for white people (such as myself). Owl’s light is another way of talking about the dusk. 900 hundred miles is a reference to Judy Grahn’s “Love rode 1500 miles on a grey hound bus & climbed in my window one night to surprise both of us.” I’ve always adored that poem.