Tag Archives: cunnilingus

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.

gnawing

24 Monday Apr 2023

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Worms of the flesh. Dreams of rapture. “The dead

do not sleep … at first,” you said, on the night

that you followed me home. From gray sickbed

to gray earth. No salvation. No white light.

No choir singing praise. Just hunger striding

through my doorway, greedy for pillow talk.

“Fuck flesh,” you called yourself, with a gnawing

look. Yes, that look, “Skewer me on your cock.

Eat me. Drink me. Love me. Make much of me.”

The dead are cold; yet you still sweated, hips

twerking, thundering; deluge from a storm cloud.

“Regrets? Since I thought lust was unholy,

never knowing this.” My tongue: on your lips,

between your thighs, under your winding shroud.

buckle

15 Monday Aug 2022

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I learned to walk when the rolling sea ceased

to roll like the earth. I learned to sleep on

billows when you taught me about your creased

lips that tasted of lime. With your tampon

between my teeth I ached for that other

low tide. I didn’t blame the moon, that time,

when you pulled your swimsuit aside. “Lick her.”

I won’t blame it now. Let the sea’s stars climb

the sky, I will not drown while going down.

Without sea legs I drank my fill between

your hips. Rising. Falling. Groaning

of a ship’s hull about to buckle. Drown

with your tampon between my teeth. Sea-queen.

Argos-eyed. You are the vast Deep, moaning.

conked

28 Sunday Nov 2021

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Fury. Less than an inch. A fingertip’s

worth of savagery. With winter over

your dress lifted breezily. With your hips

laid bare, with your thigh laid on my shoulder ––

a tongue lashing. Thawed flesh; like how ghosts crash

through conked swamp roots or gods, once sour, soon calm

under stress. Under your dress spiked mustache

cacti nestled my lips. Sophomore prom.

Without relief you made jaw clenching mewls,

then phat-ass spasms. Dissolving in blood

and flux; dissolving, all rage and rumpus.

I was a clueless child … but so were you.

“What was that?” you gasped as the world, viscid

and vast, slowly swam back into focus.

caked

22 Monday Nov 2021

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Discord in the backseat. Once, as a child

in Rome, I paused too long next to a parked

car at the sound of our neighbor’s voice, wild

and weird. “Leccamela tutta,” she barked.

Lick it up. Blake talked to fiery angels.

Dama Belle in black also knew secrets

but did not explain what, “finding Naples

on a map,” meant. Later, wayward spirits

would teach me how to make my own earthquakes;

but, back then, as both car and my neighbor’s

voice shook, I gawked through the fog-caked window,

baffled. “Fiery the angels rose.” Blake’s

voices were not mine. He saw holy choirs

and I saw la Dedova, the Widow.

][][

Notes:

“Leccamela tutta,” is an Italian phrase that falls somewhere between, “lick it all up,” and, “lick my pussy.” In 1765, when he was only eight years old, Romantic mystic and poet William Blake is said to have had his first vision when he saw a tree full of angels in Peckham park. Naples is the third-largest city of Italy, after Milan and Rome.

mixed

14 Sunday Nov 2021

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Did your mother-in-law ever once guess

that your best friend, Chava, sat in the front

seat while you and I made an unholy mess

under your niqab in the back? “My cunt

needs this,” you shivered and Chava giggled.

Love is so hard to grasp. It’s all taboo

and shame until your friends arrive. Cuckold,

they call it … though what that is in Hebrew,

I don’t know; just that under your niqab

you are flood-warning wet. Later, back home,

Chava will tongue-fuck you in the bathroom,

tasting my cum mixed with yours while you grab

the sink and quake at the touch of a tongue

so long it feels she’s licking out your womb.

ragtime

09 Tuesday Nov 2021

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Rhythms scuttle through your blood. Even I,

tone-deaf and banal, can feel them each time

I press my tongue inside you. Some still cry

that you’re unclean. They’re afraid of ragtime,

watinen, blood clots; of, kwek ezhechkewat,

menses. They would keep us … separated;

keep you from lifting your nightgown to squat

over me. Some call the beat in your blood

briny like zinc. I call it honeyed, sweet

sounding, melodic on the tongue. Grunge drips

rhythm, glory and scuttle. Fraught with clots.

Chaos in your capillaries. These neat

beats each time your cunt nuzzles to my lips,

staining my humdrum teeth with cosmic blots.

][][

NOTES:

“Leaders bleed, period,” Sylvia Young once wrote. In the Potawatomi language, Bode’wadmi, the word for blood is, “mswké” (also, “mskwim”). When blots clot it is, “watinen.” Menstruation is called, “kwek ezhechkewat.” There’s a lot about other people’s taboos concerning moon-blood that I find perplexing, from the concept that someone can be, “unclean,” to the need of keeping those with wombs separated from the rest of us. My teachers over the years have almost all been crones and wise women, people who’ve had very little use for prohibitions and superstitions concerning, “Eve’s curse,” as the boys would say. I like what Lucy H. Pearce said on the subject, “[at] her first bleeding a woman meets her power./ During her bleeding years she practices it./ At menopause she becomes it.” Migwetch.