i think maybe my Dixie likes me
in those pallid afternoons when we sip margaritas
with little paper umbrellas, with ice
but the ice, she never leaves in the glass and she likes to roll them
slowly down her chest, where the drops glisten
in the sunlight of those afternoons
she'll whisper to me her fantasies, and I'll get caught up
wound tightly in the moment, lower muscles clenching
imagining me, instead of those brute freaks in her dreams
when she'll moan my name, and not Bob, or Stu, or Art who whoever
whoever she'll fuck next, which she'll do, easily and quickly enough
and I'll hear, like always the cracking of her headboard against the wall
but sometimes i like that, because Dixie's moaning gets me off
and its her sounds that i can imagine better with
she groans, low within her throat, and there are times when i can hear
hear perfectly his body parts hitting her, slapping her, beating her frantically
trying to get her off, but, i think she toys with them too, and fakes it,
i think she likes the thrill of the hunt, never knowing what's next
and who shell be able to devour next
she has one bull after the other, she likes them hard she says
and rolls her ice further down her full breasts
that heave, in the heavy afternoon heat
ahhh my mind wails, quivers, quails at the possibility
that she toys, toys with them as she does with me
but does she know how she invades conquers and pillages me
pilfers from me my emotions that run, rampant and devious
like the rivulets of water that drip longingly down between her breasts
her golden breasts, two happy heavy globes that she loves
but that i hardly ever see, but Ricky does, and every other cock on legs
she likes them big she says, and hard, and hungry
she likes when they hurt she says, she wants to be torn apart
we sit sipping margaritas, my Dixie and i, in the sun of an afternoon
that hazes and passes slowly by, in an awfully slow amount of time
my eyes travel in passive trails, following the contours of the ice
and i think , i think for a moment,
my Dixie would taste like sugared limes
from being coated with the quenchers of her margaritas.
Nyx...
Author notes
more of my dixie...she comes easily now.
Written August 28th, 2004
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Just like the last dixie poem I was pleased to read it only grows better at the root of the tree, further down the list, another beautiful piece.
You have such a way with words, and your dixie is always filled with amazing words. It is such a joy to stop by and admire your work. It is like a picnic in the mountains with all the available cheese and wine.
much love,
James
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Your words are very erotic to the senses
You have EXTREME talent , and I'm jealous! 
Loved this write, off to the next (yup, you gotta a fan)
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i don't think she fakes it, and i don't think they care.
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I love the lazy, sensual, languid flow of this poem; the way the melting ice cubes slip down the body of the piece - which is identically Dixie's body. She is clearly what I believe American rouees term 'a ballbreaker'.
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Gawd, this is too personal for me, you know that? I have a similar story, except the lady I wanted was sluttin' out to only one guy. That's not slutting, you say, but it was, because he was no good for her and she only loved him because she was lonely. Gah! I could have done so much better for her. But no one listens to Sarah. Oh well. So yeah, this whole series is bang-on and hits home quite nicely. Lovely, lovely.
::: purrrs :::
Much respect,
Sarah
Edited on Aug 28, 11:02 because 'smilies are attacking!!!'. -
my, my, my I am blown away with this - you have knocked my off my ass and it is too early for that
I sip my tea and read aloud...but, the words dance and speed up and jolt me so this morning I am completely impressed with this. I shall have to read more......
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