The Table in the Corner

                           

      The Maitre D’ always kept that

      table by the window, screened by greenery,

      free each Friday for them to

      kick back after their long week apart,

      marooned in the world of work, their mutual

      love and lust kept bubbling with

      texts, selfies, words whispered,

      promises of acts performed once their

      other appetites were sated, their

      waiter often aroused by the bouquet of

      panties passed from pussy to pocket, a

      glimpse of nipple, the business of

      hands and feet in their

      not-so-subtle struggle to

      keep the table firmly between them.

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am indebted and whom you should visit)

Hook-Up

She thought there was no access to
her heart through any of her
external orifices:
he thought he preferred  bare
ear-lobes, nipples, labia, to a
mouthful of metal;
she thought middle-aged men eyed her
askance, only to
ogle her arse as she walked on;
he thought tattoos a turn-off, the
smell of future regret trailing in the
dirt like a fake fur-coat;
she thought her soul was a stone, each
rough fuck a chip destined one day to
leave her polished smooth;
he thought his life was over when his
wife left him, finally
dissillusioned with dust;
she thought a bar tempting;
he thought it a place of despair.

The bar-tender thought he’d seen
odder couples, stranger pairings, even
ordinary folk who came in and found
how wrong they could be.