So yesterday, I was splitting a scorpion bowl with a friend of mine at a tasty Hibachi place.
About halfway through the meal the alcohol went to my head–and by the end of the meal, I was slurring a bit. Naturally, my decision at this juncture was that I should pull out my phone and begin texting my partner about Mr. Junior–his penis. This was not an unusual gesture; drunk texting his penis has become a bit of a tradition between us, a form of affection. Yet yesterday I had received good news that put me in a particularly inspired mood, and I decided that the regular cock compliments would not suffice. This time, his penis needed poetry.
The following texts were what ensued.
Thu, May 30, 2013
…I love your penis. And scorpion bowls.
I met Mr. Junior one day
and asked for a roll in the hay.
Mr. Junior said no,
and called me a Ho.
Since then I have been a clinically diagnosed alcoholic.
Haha! I joke. I’m not an alcoholic. I just cry and fap a lot.
Haha! I joke again.
It’s mostly crying.
There was no immediate response. Forgetting it a while, I went to a friend’s house, watched a terrible movie, sobered up, and went home.
It wasn’t until the next morning that my partner responded, asking me if I’d had a fun night and expressing his belief that as a poetry blogger, I had a duty to share the whole debacle with the internet. I hope you found this enjoyable.
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Cock rises in east
I frolic forth to greet it
Two men in threesome
Both thrust for her vagina–
The penises kiss
Fast and hard fapping
And then in walks grandmother
Sad boner recedes
“I love your hair like that, you know
when it wildly frames your face
in a disarrayed saint’s halo
and I love as well
the careless way
you let my tshirt hang from your shoulder
when you’re curled up
on the living room couch,”
a strap-on dangles
from your finger.
I sit in my throne of discarded tissue
regally extend a hand
and snatch a fresh one from the box.
I empty my nose
“…A little snot
can be sexy,”
with your most endearing
I drink my soup broth
and some Game of Thrones?”
you ask and sidle closer
I give you
my most begrudgingly
and scootch over on our couch
to make room.
“Thank you love,”
and nestle close to me
as tenderly you reach
and grab my ass.
My first cock,
and you sat thick
in my uncertain
I admired you
with vague apprehension.
And despite any misgivings
I had some notion
of how this business went,
so I tongued you
like some would turn a radio dial–
until your moans hit
that musical frequency.
You were young then too,
and loaded long before I touched you
so that my vigor
whatever I lacked in finesse
and your hips rumbled like Vesuvius
so that you cried a
back my mouth and
hand fast through
discharged and finally fell
I sighed in satisfaction,
and smiling then, looked up
to meet your eyes
and lovingly gaze
into one of them
because the other one was closed–
and covered by your hand,
which pulled away thinly coated
There was a slow span of time
for that spark of comprehension
to portentously grow itself
After a moment,
you quietly asked for a tissue.
And invariably from that day forth,
“I’m a pretty girl,” he whispered, and the hardened nub of his nose grew another inch.
Jiminy watched, rubbing his wings together in anticipation. “Yes Pinocchio…tell another one.”
To provide some brief context, a D/s-ish dynamic in one of my relationships had once led me to partake in daily edging–that is, masturbation ending with a denial of orgasm. This poem (based on Henley’s Invictus, in case the title wasn’t enough of a giveaway) was written then in a moment of particular despair and vaginal indignance.
Upon the brink of perverse glee,
I still my swiftly frigging limb,
And thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable quim.
In the fell clutch of cruel denial
Though I now wince and cry aloud,
It’s but a temporary trial
From which my crotch might emerge proud.
There looms the orgasmless waste
Of my masturbatory ban!
Shedding frustration and distaste
I face my ordeal, clit in hand.
It matters not if I am bound
From fully pleasuring my front,
I am the master of my mound:
I am the captain of my cunt.
Lately, the rumbling of the bus seats always seemed to get to her.
It wasn’t that the city buses didn’t normally rumble—they used big noisy motors, and the vibrations always carried up a bit through the seats. She was simply a little more sensitive of late. Adjusting her groceries in her lap, Paige bit her lip and looked out the window.
Gina. Vexing, goddamn siren of a woman Gina.
She had answered Paige’s ad for an apartment mate roughly 5 months ago, and it had gone relatively well from the start. They were friendly with each other, but generally good at keeping out of each others’ hair: ideal qualities in a suitemate, by Paige’s estimation. But the past month, good lord…
The bus hit a bump, and her stomach fluttered. She ground her teeth.
Utterly vexing. She must have gotten very comfortable over the past month. Because there was no other explanation for the way she had taken to lounging around the apartment in that tshirt every evening. Kicking her feet up on the coffee table. Grabbing that mug from the highest shelf. That god forsaken tshirt stretching and lifting and exposing teasing bits of the curves that demurely hid above those gloriously bare legs.