Pulled

Though she had her own strength,

tensile, febrile, demanding,

nevertheless she was

pulled to him,

pliant, willing.

 

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Two Women

They had met for sex, in a

complicated choreography that let

two wives explore their mutual

curiosity before surprising one

very lucky husband.

They chose somewhere discreet

with a large bathroom where they could

pamper and primp and

drink wine and just maybe

chicken out.

But like turned to lust via the

kisses they remembered practising in

pink bedrooms and smelly cars, the

touches wonderfully strange and

wholly different.

After, they had to bathe,

enjoying their womanliness,

laughing over lingerie,

primped and pampered and

perhaps ready.

A ting-ting told them their

beau was imminent and they

planned arousing poses, one

sat astride the other

erotically entwined.

But breast to breast,

heart to heart, both

beating madly, they

simply embraced and

held each other tight.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Anticipation

Anticipation made her antsy all day, kept

drawing her back to the window from which

she would see whether her husband was

alone or had company.

She caught herself playing with her hair, something

her mother had warned her against—“It’s a

signal, dear, that you’re interested”—but she

was interested, was curious, was scared.

She knew she should get dressed though she

often greeted her husband naked, but with

someone else it would give the

wrong impression, wouldn’t it?

If she saw him/them arrive there

wouldn’t be time to dress, but

watching was so hypnotic and

waiting was such a powerful aphrodisiac.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Domestic Olympiad

After the five-ring circus of their sex

she draped herself in

no-one’s flag, had

no medals around her neck, heard

no applause or cheers from

non-existent spectators, was not

judged or awarded points or

penalised for some

minor infringement, but still

sweated, dripped, struggled to

catch her breath, needed badly to

rehydrate, looked forward to a

possible repechage.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

The Three Graces

I never know which of your

three selves will grace me tonight: your

reflection, all spine, demanding

touch or tongue; or your shadow

so adept at slipping away

giggling at how inept I am at

catching; or your corporeal self

just waiting to be caught.

 

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Held Tight

She was held tight,
held tight to the sheet
held tight to the bed
held tight to the floor
held tight in the house
held tight in the country
held tight in a world that
let her be held tight in
such a photo, this
expression of herself, this
sense of a freedom she
held tight to and
wouldn’t let go.



(I began this poem on the 14th.July 2016 as an erotic poem, left it unfinished then woke to the news of the events in Nice which inspired everything after line 5: in my own way, I think of it still as an erotic poem because the erotic impulse is even more important in the face of the barbaric and censorious)

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Bumps and Splendours

The heavy boardroom table thrums,

your icon flashing within the

cup of my palm, urgent.

A glance assures all around are

comatose as the CEO drones,

oblivious to your nudity.

Thrum: “Bored darling? Me too.

Thinking of Room Service and

what he would find.”

Thrum: “There’s a fateful knocking.

Am I too bare to dare to

answer such a summons?”

Thrum: “And I have no money!

With what can I tip him for

champagne with no cash?”

Thrum: “Seriously vexed! He was like

80 and wretched and kept his

eyes on the carpet!”

Thrum: Photo of a humdrum

hotel carpet “Seriously, do I have to

go down to the hotel bar….

Thrum: “…and thrust my

tits at some lonely out-of-town

salesman to get some…

Thrum: “…attention, or are you going to

get up here pronto and remind me

how you love my….

Thrum: “…lumps and bumps and

splendours?”

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

The Roots of Rough

Sometimes she liked it rough though

never exactly knew why his

demanding hand in her hair, sometimes

choking her with his length, sometimes

using it as reins to

slap his thighs against her

arched haunches before

painting her face with his

effusions, made her so very

wet and she wondered whether

any of her underlings at work

would ever understand.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

A New Touch

Shackled by her shirt she

knelt waiting, her eyes

tight shut to sharpen her

sense of someone else

entering her space, a

different footfall, a new

breath, the prickle of a

strange scent, a sense of

the tension that awaits a

new touch.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Dress

That gorgeous dress? The one you

fell in love with through the

closed shop window, couldn’t get

back to for days, amazed it was

still there and it fitted you like a

long, slinky glove but cost

half a month’s salary and a

bad case of conscience? Well it’s

even more gorgeous as it

pools around your high heels,

kicked away into some corner,

forgotten for the next few

unforgettable hours.


 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Pornflakes and Coffee

When they awoke he had gone quietly and his

wife’s shy smile answered his first kiss—

“Are we ok?”  “More than ok, ok?”

She snorted, sought his morning wood—

“Can this wait? You boys sure

stretched me last night and….”

rubbing her face “…you both left a

wonderful mess, but now I need a

shower, and coffee please mister!”

He watched her naked beauty

wobble uncertainly to the bathroom,

lay awhile amidst the

still-strong smells, images of the

night as tight a ring about his heart as

that ring he’d put on his wife’s finger and

just as snug, water running, her

happily humming, him brushing

pornflakes from the bed and making coffee.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

The Bet

The bet was no more than

five minutes before someone

offered to buy her a drink, her

husband watching

his watch.

The bet was no more than

nominal to her after

two births and feeling

dowdy despite the new

mani-pedi.

The bet was no more than

four minutes old when a

man offered and she

shrugged, said yes, accepted

she’d lost.

The bet was no more than

a regret as she laughed and

accepted a second drink, wondering

when her husband would

intervene.

The bet was no more than

a memory when she felt his

erection against her thigh as he

leant in to whisper in

her ear.

The bet was no more than

a vague recollection as she

felt his hands on her forgotten body,

caught across the bar her husband’s

hot eyes.

The bet was no more,

mislaid as she

pulled his lips to hers,

took his hand and

stood up.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Neighbours

Those kids will break that trampoline

or an arm; Margot’s roses are coming

along strong; the Fernandez are

rowing again—about what?; and Bob’s vintage

Mustang has had so many spare parts it’s

barely old but still he tinkers as she

kneels here naked in the window, aware

anyone could see her if they weren’t so

preoccupied, just looked up, as hands

tilt her hips just so and a

blunt tool expels the air from her lungs

in a fine mist on the windowpane

obscuring her from

prying eyes.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Jewels

It was his to give, but

hers to receive as she wished:

whether her heels spurred him to

pulse his risk against her

not-quite-redundant cervix; or

spurt with a strangled cry,

each drop a new

vertebra up her spine; or as now to

adorn her torso with

jewels finer than anything he could

possibly afford to buy.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Bare Sark

When the Vikings came, the

most feared were the

naked ones, the

baresarkers, so

enamoured of battle they

threw themselves on the foe,

fearlessly, just as you

threw yourself on me,

eyes aglint,

battle-ready,

bare sark.


 

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Laugh Lines

Despite being naked, she was sweating
in that overheated apartment where she could
blossom exotically, shucking the
chrysalis of motherhood, those
worries about the pooch of her stomach, the
slow droop of her breasts, the
less than faint lines begun when
she used to laugh.

Slippery with the sweat and oil, she
squirmed from under him, made him
chase her, wanting to be caught and
pinned in his cabinet, not bothered being a
specimen, but just happy to be
laughing again.