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.