It starts with a p.
And ends with...?
An n.
Pen? Pin? Pain?
C’mon, you can do better than that.
We were not sitting,
we were standing, facing each other one foot apart
like two cats... maybe leopards?... ready for a fight
tails deceptively wagging opposite directions
voices low, smooth, drooling...
Porn? you giggled,
poking me in the chest.
Hey, don’t be crude, I snarled,
though there was no reason for snarling,
the tension cutting thick slices off my reserve.
Sometimes I took myself too seriously.
You pursed your lips,
looking at me strangely
was unseeing the right description for your look?
Parmesan?
No, I didn’t know you knew Italian.
I know French too. Poisson?
Close, even very close,
but it is not in French
and you don’t speak French.
No? Are you sure? What about Poisson d’Avril?
It just struck me that you were pulling my leg,
the ring in my nose
the other end of the chain in your hand
and I was waddling along without even being aware of it.
I looked at you, waiting.
Something in the substance of your eyes changed,
from clear to turbid, from mocking to reaving,
the layers of boiling mud
once bubbling peacefully in the realms of innocent sleep
now stirring, growling,
an awakening demon in your mind raking them pitilessly off lethargy’s bed
the trident’s three prongs drawing blood
as the storm majestically shook its mane
thin steam crawling upwards out of your nostrils
and saliva suddenly burning blisters at the corners of your mouth.
Kneel!... you commanded
my knees sinking to the floor
your dress flying over your head
freshly spotted panties tearing alongside a complaining seam
just as my head entered the forbidden queendom
and your thighs closed their vise around my neck
ready to rip my head off
alongside with the devastating pleasure
forcing its way into you and searing your craving insides.
We rolled on the floor,
intoxicated with escaping fragrances and liquors
my voraciousness equaled only by your bacchanal caterwauls
famished senses straining for release
hoping to never reach that glade where straining fingers turn fists
and pieces of skin and flesh and hair slide underneath fingernails
and a sun falls over us burying our bodies inside its fierce entrails.
Passion... you bit the word into my lip
telling me you knew all along,
and allowing me to wipe away the ravages upon your body
with tips of fingers
and tip of tongue
and tips of eyelashes.
