Sunday, 22 December 2013


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?

Friday, 6 December 2013

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.

Wednesday, 27 November 2013


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.

Monday, 18 November 2013


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

Tuesday, 5 November 2013


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?

Saturday, 19 October 2013


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.

Wednesday, 16 October 2013

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.

Monday, 23 September 2013

"....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".

Tuesday, 30 July 2013

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.

Friday, 19 July 2013


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

Sunday, 14 July 2013

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”.

Wednesday, 3 July 2013

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.

Tuesday, 25 June 2013

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.

Sunday, 23 June 2013


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.

Thursday, 13 June 2013

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.

Sunday, 2 June 2013

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.

Thursday, 23 May 2013

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.

Tuesday, 14 May 2013


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 d├ęshabille, 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

Monday, 6 May 2013


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.

Monday, 29 April 2013


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.

Thursday, 25 April 2013

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.

Monday, 22 April 2013

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.

Friday, 12 April 2013

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.

Saturday, 6 April 2013


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?

Wednesday, 3 April 2013

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.

Saturday, 23 March 2013


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.

Saturday, 9 March 2013

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.

Saturday, 23 February 2013

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.

Wednesday, 20 February 2013

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.

Monday, 18 February 2013


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.

Thursday, 14 February 2013

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.

Tuesday, 12 February 2013

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.

Friday, 8 February 2013

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.

Monday, 21 January 2013


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?

Friday, 18 January 2013


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.

Thursday, 17 January 2013


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.

Saturday, 12 January 2013


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.

Monday, 7 January 2013


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.

Thursday, 3 January 2013

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.