Tag Archives: cunnilingus

dishabille

06 Friday Jul 2018

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Kindness is a strange aphrodisiac —

You show me shocking blue bruises, stitches

 

and a thick tattoo on your lower back

that reads: Baby Mac Sappho. Your nieces

 

come to visit. Your sister frowns at me.

I look like trouble. The hospital room

 

is small. I wait in the hall as you three

chat but as soon as they’re gone we resume

 

where we left off: your gown pulled to your breasts,

thighs wrapped around my neck. Your dishabille

 

lips, the moon-stud in your clitoral hood,

the way you spurt. All week you had no guests.

 

That hurt. But this kindness, you say, this feels

good. Just good? I ask. Heh, cuntablunt good.

fat palm

27 Monday Nov 2017

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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

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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.

Quote

from, “dictionnaire érotique moderne,” by alfred delvau (1882)

13 Monday Nov 2017

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CLITORISER (Se). La faire jouir en jouant de la langue
dans son con (voir Gamahucher)

Il te faut, à tout prix,


Sucer des clitoris,


Et si l’antiquité


Ne l’eût pas fait,


tu l’aurais inventé.


—J. Duflot.

CLITORISER. One who make her cum while playing with her
cunt (see Gamahucher)

You need, at all costs,

to suck the clitoris,

And if antiquity hadn’t invented

this then you would have.

—J. Duflot.

][][

NOTE: I often lament that English has not invented better terms for oral sex. We borrow some; “cunnilingus” and “fellatio” are universal but at this point a little bland. “Suck clit” and “Blow job” have always felt like school yard retorts; what we say when we are shit-faced drunk and all our poetry has left us. The French, though, have devoted a lot of time and energy into creating their erotic language. The fact that they have an entire verb, “gamahuche,” expands their poetic worlds drastically. English needs something better than just applying, “licking,” and “sucking,” onto cunt and cock.

potheadette

12 Tuesday Sep 2017

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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

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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

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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.

throwing shade

06 Thursday Jul 2017

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Breathe on your neck and your hairs stand erect.

You are wet like moss dribbling on rock

with kick-boots, leather jacket, dawn’s mohawk.

I love your brawn, the strength that you project.

You are thick in every way that I’m plump.

I drag your knife across my shoulder blade

and all my pale flesh opens. You throw shade

better than my friends. I’m all sad thighs, rump

and queer bulges, yet still I bleed. I gag

you, face-fucking your skull until we choke

and say this is shit. We laugh. It’s all shit

that we drown in spliff. We’re called dyke and fag,

Hera’s bum-boys. I love you. There’s pale smoke

between us — drifting up — into orbit.

milking

26 Friday May 2017

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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.