Say that submissiveness is a wavelength
simply seeking proper context. You wet
yourself, you say, because your secret strength
comes from dreams of cum, of cream, of stout jets
arching up from between your legs. I’ve squished
juice from you, pinched your lips until, like grapes,
you ran down my arm. “I drip when ravished,”
you squeak. “Je mouille comme une folle.” What escapes
between us is slick. We burble. We rave.
We read the patterns with a soothsayer’s
prowess that you sprinkle and dew. Always,
they say, you will come again. That this wave
in you will come out. Call these kisses prayers
to all that bucks and groans, gushes and sprays.
My French is very bad but I believe that, “je mouille comme une folle,” translates into, “I’m as wet as a crazy woman.” We all should be that wet.