I sit back and weave a pen through my fingers-
an insidious little quirk of mine when impatience,
horniness, and a thirst for thick dark rum
begin to stir in the pit of my stomach.
It is insane
the way he makes me feel;
this lip-biting, thigh-sliding frustration
he so carefully manipulates into cozy conversation-
he is a maestro laid back in unzipped jeans
orchestrating with a finger how he wants to spin my buttons
and lick my name from nipple to nipple.
I breathe and he taunts me
with semi-availability, then offers me a bed and a cock
in a bad boy way, ( God, it’s the only way)
with urgent (come on!) eyes-
I know better than this, but better doesn’t make me laugh
until my cheeks hurt or make me wish so hard...
A bottle sits at the corner of my desk
gleaming with amber promise and at least one
sheet-twisting orgasm, and I cannot help it - I smile,
I spin in my chair, I allow the angst to ripple-ride
down my roller coaster spine
he wants me!
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what you write is the poetry















102 old applause
