nipples rise to the occasion like men called to the draft
they don’t understand what they are getting into
they don’t know about the mouth of the war.
they don’t know that men like me need stipulation
when expected to serve for four years or more.
nor that i’ve called them up meet me under the guise of alliances
but I only intended causalities.
unexpected goosebumps like cavalries riding over the hills of your hip bones
meet at the battle of the valley near your belly button.
i am blasting cannon balls with my fingernails
leave scorch marks on your inner sky.
across the divot of your body
the one caused by the sudden absence of your rib cage
and the sudden drop in your defenses.
i have infiltrated under the mask of merger
i have invaded the holy city
and I have touched her arc.
first with the tip of my finger
then with the tip of my tongue.
There’s nothing quite like the soft of your inner thigh and the way it tastes like your entire life between my teeth and underneath my lips and fingertips giving me permission to do my damnedest. Well, Baby, what’s your grandest pleasure? Feather light finger touches or should I press down with my incisors, Baby? Maybe you’d like to try them both out for size? Or maybe your insides are just a bit lonely and I should pay them a well over due visit. Is it me or are you just a peach, dripping down my chin and onto my brand new leather shoes. Either way baby, slice me off a piece of you, and we can share this forbidden fruit if you want to, or I can do Adam one better and do the sin before you even see the tree.
Baby, let me convolute you. Let me introduce you to this world outside the Garden. Pardon me if my allusions get too metaphorical, but metaphorically you are a honey comb broken open, and I am ten thousand honey bees, buzzing to be caught in your sticky fucking sweet, to get my hands wet in the Fountain of You.
No one can live forever but I’ve heard some have been carried up to glory.
This entire poem is a glorified metaphor for your body and the reasons I’ve been known to call you “Chariots of Fire.”
She is a string of broken promises made to men that aren’t me, and she only wears her panties on Saturdays, because she likes the way they feel round her knees when she’s driving, and she’s driving me wild.
Open windows in her little white Chrysler Lebaron with my hand lost between her thighs, and she’s trying to keep from coming and her concentration.
I hit all the right notes last night and I watched you come like symphonies. I threw things like innocence to the wayside and you touched me like there was salvation in my skin.
Things like you and me weren’t meant to make it past the morning, instead we thrive in the night time, setting flesh on fire and daring time to quench us, and daring each other to quench our thirst.
The things I can’t account for, like your panties, my shirt, and your left shoe, I’ll find them tomorrow after my haze. The things I can remember, like your moans, my cum, and the scratches down my spine, I’ll recall at random when I shower and touch myself to remember them in full.
|My girlfriend:||I totally just masturbated. -angel emoticon-|
|Me:||...aren't you at work?|
|My girlfriend:||Yeah. We are so dead. And I was super turned on.... When I'm in public its risky therefore exciting. And that seemed to get me off pretty nicley.|
|Me:||I love you the most.|
As of now I’ve only broken up with someone in the bookstacks….
and ya know had a few group meetings and watched RuPaul’s drag race or whatever,
but I WILL HAVE SEX WITH A WOMAN IN THOSE STACKS.
You mark my words bookstacks…
I will make a girl cum betwixt your shelves… I swear.
Today my therapist and I talked about the idea that women (straight women mostly) who would otherwise be interested in me, take me out of the running when they realize that I wasn’t born male. More specifically, no matter how much they say that they see me as male, and do well to address me as such, and may have even been introduced to me as such, and understand me in every way as male, once they realize that I haven’t always been this way (whatever way that is) they take me out of the “potential suitors” category.Read more
I want to paint you like a canvas, lie you on your back and strip you down to the linen. Use my tongue and fingertips like paint brushes and create in you a masterpiece to be studied for centuries.