Coccyx

Curled up in sleep, your coccyx

calls cuckoo to me, but

which way to go? Upwards,

along the stepping stones of your spine

to that nexus of nerves in your neck?

Or down into your dark heart,

past the fruit of last night into the

fresh taste of this morning?

A Younger Man's Car

The last time she’d done this

cars were like boats and

backseats like couches, she was

lithe and limber and

unbothered by prying eyes, but

cars had shrunk like her

expectations and her limbs were

locked and loaded with

children, stress, frustration, a

sclerotic marriage, so it took

several tentative thrusts before her

juices finally flowed and her

senses decoupled enough to

lift her complaining hips and

accept the limitations of a

younger man’s car.

Motes

The shaft of late afternoon sun

cut her body aslant from

shoulder to hip, picking out the

faint albino hairs, the riot of

priapic milk-glands about her

tumescent nipple, the shadowed

underhang of her breast, the

heave of her stomach after such

unaccustomed exercise, the

drops of sweat trickling to her navel

and the dark hair below now

bright as a bush full of raindrops.

As I lay back her hand sought me,

hoping for more, and the sun

caught the motes—some no doubt

her skin, some mine—slowly

settling through slashed air

to make one flesh.

Teat

A ghostly orb in a dark sky,

milky sinews of moonlit cloud

capped by a demanding,

tumescent teat—well,

what can a boy do but

suckle.

Toes

For L in her time of trial, and in hope

 

Why is it that, in the

woozy postlude to a

stupendous post-lunch fuck when

all our organs seem

open to each other, every

atom of our bodies

plastered together, I

most remember the tickle of your

toes against mine?

Acquaintance

Dry lips meet lipstick, take

taste first, fruit perhaps, or

subtle perfume as mouth

acquaints mouth, all the senses

bemusled, bumfuddled,

shaken awake by the

first tiny tip of tongue

teasing teeth to open,

wrestle a while, get to

know each other properly.

Do we dream of freedom or desire?

In the dream there were only couples

and me—I’ve no idea why—and the

woman I was paired with was nervous,

unsure of her attractiveness, why she  was

doing this, who she was or

wanted to be, so we only

shared a kiss, her tongue

tentatively exploring freedom.

Later in the dream, across a

crowded bar, our eyes met, hers now

demanding that I ignore the alarm,

sleep longer, dream deeper,

forget her previous hesitancy and

just take her.

"....I Would"

He wondered between which crochet, which

minim, in the exposition of which

prelude, which fugue, the

gawky girl had become a woman;

was there a moment, buried in Bach, when

she had changed clothes from

baggy, frumpy sweats to the

artfully-torn jeans showing

summer-tanned thigh; was he so

submerged in Schubert he somehow missed the

burgeoning of her breasts, the tightness of her

T-shirt, how deep was her valley?

so mired in Mendelssohn that he mistook those

shy, sly, sideways glances that asked

“Are you looking?” “Am I hot?” “Do you

want me?”, which he now knew he did.

Waiting for her, playing some jazz,

thinking whether he would be

damned, hounded, traduced, the words of a

medieval monk rang in his brain,

“…if God do not forgive it,

I would".

That Moment

That moment

when your face goes all

serious as though the

fun has gone when really

inside your body,

within your head

the fun is

just beginning.

Suspicion

I suspect she has no idea how

beautiful she is, how many

heads she turns;
I suspect she wore that shirt to

enhance what she doesn’t have when

what she has is so perfect;

I suspect she is puzzled by the

hot stares of both sexes and by the

hot flushes such looks send through her;

I suspect she is a virgin who each night

dreams of priapic men, lustful women,

unspeakable depravity;

I suspect that once ignited her passion will

consume many human hearts, several

city blocks, and most of all

me.

Cleft and Torn

For Penny

You are cleft and I am torn

between hair and bare

liking the lack of

stragglers between my teeth but

missing the erotic tickle when

wet pussy leaves a warm

snail-trail down my

twitching spine.

"Swisser Swatter"

Cf. John Aubrey, “Brief Lives”, Sir Walter Raleigh

You winced, and I worried I’d

hurt you but you kept me

clasped with arms and thighs

urging me deeper with your

clenched feet, your taut breath

tight in my ear, resolving into a

mantra of simple syllables

ending in “me”.

What We Mean When We Write Erotica

Writing erotica is to

cook but not eat,

eat but not taste,

taste but not savour, when

eating, tasting,

savouring is what the

writer of erotica

most misses.

Reverse Gear

It’s sex in reverse, isn’t it?

Seeing one’s lover wash and dress,

cover what was naked and

sweaty and stained and

pressed tight against you just

moments ago, the

loins you laved veiled by the

panties you nearly tore, the

breasts you sucked so hard now

nestled anew in that flimsy bra, the

stockings so sensually unrolled now

rolled back up sore, stretched legs.

She turns for you to zip up that

dress you unpurled last night to

lick each knurl of her spine, then her

feet find fine shoes, and she gives you the

same hot tongue she gave when you

opened the door she closes,

leaving you with the slowly

evaporating scent of her perfume, her

sex, her warmth still

lingering in the sheets.

Pumice

I didn’t think my old bones

could carry you, but your

dark eyes demanded and then

there you were, arms and

legs tight about my torso,

mouth glued to mouth, for like

pumice there isn’t much to you,

what isn’t water is air,

the water draining from you to

moisten me.

When the Hand Talks Back

Dark eyes hidden in dark hair, her

sculpted scapulae almost meeting,

slim hands full of

balled-up sheet, slender biceps

bunched, calves strained by

tip-toe tension, a trickle of

sweat cascading down her

sharply-defined spine, the

sound of one hand clapping

fading into the hot night as the

perfect rendition of my hand

appears abruptly on her

perfect ass.

Corridor of Uncertainty

There’s always a dank and

dimly-lit corridor, 

doors marked with

strange symbols designed to

confuse men and women

confused with the heat and

noise and booze and

who could blame her if she

found herself dragged through the

wrong door by someone of the

wrong sex.

Girls of Slender Legs

Driving home through the shoals of

long-legged foals took me back to

less puritanical times, to

Liverpool in the 70’s when

“schoolies” were fair game, with their

skirts rolled up, their

satchels and sarcasm, their

white socks and dark hearts, so

ready to be led astray they

often gave you a roadmap,

driving you on with their

slender legs around your waist, their

school-shod heels urging more,

deeper, faster, longer, in the

language of Chaucer with a

Scouse accent.

Anthropocene

We expect your throat to be capacious but

choke on our toothbrushes: expect

contortions when our

bones creak; expect a

waxed vagina to host a

hirsute pubis.

We wrap up warmly yet still

expect you en déshabille, or

dressed like sluts to complement our

designer suits, our jewels snug in

comfy boxers whilst your waist is

cinched to wincing in that corset we

thoughtfully bought you.

You must of course be sweet smelling and

spotlessly clean, both

inside and out, while we

muss your hair when we

pull your immaculate face into our

misguided idea of hygiene.

So why, after all these millennia, haven’t you

changed us? Don’t tell me that

somewhere beneath that

civilised veneer, there is a

secret hankering for a

caveman?

Suit

There are stains on my suit,

about the fly, where you

rubbed your desire and for which

you will be punished.

But the suit will be cleaned

so that it might be

soiled again by your

wet splendour.

Alchemy

Cupped beneath you, my hand

collects your dew, smelling of

earth after Spring rain; of incense

burnt brusquely in a

bronze pot; of the deep sea

disturbed by the dark

pull of the Moon; of

blood seeping somewhere.

But your dark eyes reflect how

puzzled you are by

the alchemy of

your own body.

Take and Give

Who, exactly, “took” whom?

Did I take you when you

took me within you?

Did I take or did you give?

Did you take what I gave?

If it were willingly then

I am not sure who

took, who gave.

Hymning Sarah

Someone should hymn Sarah, of the

bounteous breasts and gentle smile:

Sarah, who could hold her own

drinking beer; who could make

Brownian Motion make sense in a

heathen’s mind; who had the

balls to take a

timid boy’s virginity; be

generous about those

first fumblings; could

laugh afterwards at the

misapprehension of the stains of

vigorous sex on

cheap pink sheets.

Someone should hymn Sarah,

kind ravisher of innocence, and

since it was I, it

should be me.

The Sorcerer's Apprentice

You wanted to learn all those

alchemical tricks and I was

happy to teach what

magic the mouth can make when

abetted by deft hands—one

stroking, the other exploring the

netherlands—with lips

massaging, tongue dancing, and

most importantly those

deep dark eyes looking into mine as

diligence gets its reward.

Questions

Whose party is this? Who

invited her? Did they

specify costume? And what

makes this drink so

drinkable? Is it making her

horny? Or is it the sight of

that woman sucking that man?

Is someone touching her arse?

Going beneath her skirt? Is she

arching her  back to make herself

available? Is that really

advisable? Is she giving the

wrong signals?  Can she hear a

zip being undone? Was the

schoolgirl outfit perhaps

a mistake?

Geology Lesson

The spirits go up as the

gin goes down and you

waggle your bum in an

unsubtle invitation, chanting

“The mites go up and the

tights come down” until

they do.

Intimacy

I miss the intimacy of

toes on instep, of

knee against hamstring.

loins and buttocks

stickily nestled, hands

tight clasped between

cooling breasts, mouth

buried in thick hair I could

happily drown in.

Dark Eyes

Even as they droop closed, your
dark eyes glint with a
last fire-lick of lust, your
desire merely
banked for the morning.

Wine with Water

Once or twice, the wondrous

gush of her orgasm would be darker,

hotter, my probing penis having

hastened her flow, the

egg that got away smearing its

red yolk onto my groin, the sheets, her

rouging cheeks, as if I would mind her

fertility, her womanhood, as if I

wouldn’t drink a little

wine with her water and

be no worse for it.

Leopard II

The leopard pads about the house

stark naked, proud of her

long freckled body, of her

tousled hair, the smeared mascara, the

stickiness of her face, of the

collar tight about her neck and the

leash lying coiled on her pillow, beside the

man for whom she has

willingly sheathed her claws, the

thought of which makes her

pussy weep anew as she

sadly gathers her strewn clothing and

prepares to go back.

Leopard

Her long freckled body rode him like a

maddened leopard mauling prey, her

pale fingernails digging into his chest as she

drove herself inexorably to His orgasm,

the one he’d  promised her when she gave him the

handle of her leash as she knelt, naked and

thickly collared in her suburban hallway

surrounded by smiling family faces.

What She Found in Wal-Mart

The collar is thick, designed

at least for a Great Dane, the

chain heavy enough to restrain a

large beast but instead it

decorates the slender throat of a

beautiful woman, kneeling,

offering the leather handle, her

mouth open, perfectly red and

begging to be fed.

Blue-Stocking Slut

Her peroration on Johnson, Hume and

Austen had the audience in the

palm of her hand where,

ten minutes later, in a

carefully chosen Disabled Toilet, she

held my balls as she sucked me, the

fingers of her other hand frantically

frigging her startlingly bare slit so

naked under the respectable dress in which

she’d lectured about Austen and

Hume and Johnson.

For J, in remembrance

First Boyfriend

Her first boyfriend was her hairbrush, or

at least its handle, the shape of which

held some sort of penile promise, and no

potential embarrassment from a

boy at the other end.

Fallen Angel

Pet’s room smelt of pussy

so I knew she’d played with herself

all day while I worked and now

slept, surrounded by an 

impressive array of toys suitable for

both orifices, her body

half-hidden amidst the

tousled sheets, sated yet

insatiable, waiting to be

woken for more like a

precious pink Peri.

Playground

There are few secrets sacred in the playground,

where we all compete, all

bitch about each other, silently

ungenerously, unwomanly: how that one is too

posh to wash; how this one flirts outrageously with the

First-Team coach; how she shows her

Botox to the world, but wouldn’t show her

husband her arsehole.

And me? Quiet me, trying to look

inconspicuous? What are they all

thinking of me as I avoid their looks,

scan the heave for my children as my

lover’s sperm drips by the million into the

gusset of my Marks and Spencer knickers?

Eyes

Some women stare into the one eye that can

sting them, fascinated to see what their

mouths and hands have wrought, others

stare into your eyes, searching intently for the

paradox of pain in pleasure, and others

close their eyes to savour everything from

sore knees to bruised lips to the

hand knotted in the hair and the sudden

flooding in the throat.

Webcam

Why do the shy strip so erotically?

She knows no bump and grind, no

lasciviousness; she chose music she could

dance to, not something sultry; spent

most of the song playing with her

sundress, then undressed quickly and

forgot how knickers get

tangled on ankles, the sexy look

succumbing to a blushing smile becoming

confusion as the track ends with her

nakedly self-conscious and a dash to

cut the webcam, proffering a final

unintentional close-up of her nipples, like

sea-glazed pebbles.

Clutch

She thought her days of doing this were long gone,

but then so was her ex-husband, there was a

babysitter at home and the guy’s wife wasn’t keen on

late-night visitors, apparently, whilst the general

lack of money for luxuries like hotels and

beds lead them to this dark lay-by where she was

discovering how unlimber she had become, how hard it was to

bend enough to suck adequately, how modern seats

prevented deep penetration, how easy it was for her

foot to become wedged under the clutch, how much she

regretted getting cloth covers, how

desperate for an orgasm she had become, how

much in need she was of a

bigger car.

Technology

She wondered which of the gazillion programmes on her

washing-machine wouldn’t ruin the

secrets Victoria had vouchsafed, what to

defrost in the microwave with its

rebarbative instructions, how to

schedule the Skype meeting with the

Execs from four time-zones; how to get them to

stop blabbing so she had time to

shower and shave and

dress sexily for her lover, show him how the

happy-snaps worked, make sure the

video was plugged in, and the

laptop with the webcam was

well-positioned so her

husband working abroad could watch her being

well fucked, and where were the batteries, and---

oh ma-a-an, she moaned as the

cock did its job, a

woman’s work is never done.

Braced for Love

He remembered the first girl he’d kissed at school,

how their braces had clashed, how they’d

laughed and then got that serious look and

got on with the business of kissing determinedly.

Well, his teeth didn’t need bracing now but his

body did, as did this woman’s, and after so many

kiss-less years, the yearning was

palpable as mouth leant towards mouth and their

chair-wheels clashed with the same sound as

brace on brace, and for a moment they

stared into each other’s eyes, then laughed and

got on with the determined business of kissing seriously.