wrapped tightly in arms - unwilling to release

Walking past a store
I see windows on the way
The view they want to show
The side that’s for display

I like to go around
And look in from the side
To see the secret things
The things they want to hide

The rooms are dark and damp
The contents never shown
The window’s locked up tight
Can’t enter on my own

You saw me waiting there
Then you gave me a key
And let me wander ’round
To see what I could see

Thank you for the chance
To take a look inside
To see what others can’t
Perhaps they never tried

In reading “Blink“
I read about faces
And communication
Intently
And the muscles
And the emotions
And not just our eyes
For our words may lie
Our actions may deceive

But our face’s phases… they cannot

In looking at me
You read my face
My communication
Intently
Read the muscles
Read the emotions
As well as my eyes
Without any words you
Confirmed my actions

The soul’s sole window… eyes are not

Into the looking…
…glass I gaze
But not my own…
…visage I see

The glass it sits…
…in the corner
Tilted toward the…
…bed we share

The image I see…
…is crystal clear
I see directly…
…into your eyes

Your body pinned…
…beneath my own
My body invading…
…your body below

Our movements…
…are scripted but
The familiarity is…
…quite welcome

For soon we know…
…the expressions
Will change on each…
…of our faces

And then you feel…
…my presence
…my essence
…my desire
…my fire
Completely

This is my first non-poetry post, possibly Max’s way of getting even with me for too many serious comments. Hopefully, it will be the last.

1. Several months ago, one of my co-workers swiped a menu from the new mexican place across the street. She left it on my desk. I still have it.
2. I love a clean dry-erase board. It makes me think of possibilities and opportunities that aren’t yet visible.
3. Now that I’m an old guy, I find that I’m horny more often than I used to be. I don’t know why.
4. This is an “alter-ego” blog. I wonder how many of the blogs I read are, like this, not the primary writing outlet of the author. I wonder how many alter-ego blogs some people have. I wonder if this is a sign that we are Sybil.
5. I’m amazed at the way we (people online) are willing to openly share things with complete strangers, that we might not, if we didn’t have anonymity.
6. My cat, which I inherited from my Mom when she died seven years ago, has an inoperable tumor on the left side of her face, which is now blocking her sinuses. I know at some point, I need to put her out of her misery, but she represents a living connection to my Mom, so it’s hard.
7. As I get older, I’m wearing more boxers, and fewer briefs. I have no idea why.
8. The edge of a woman’s jawbone is one of the sexiest places I’ve ever had the chance to touch, with my fingertips, my lips, or my tongue.

It’s been years since we met
And long after, we first kissed
Long after, we first touched
My hand grasped your wrist

It’s been months since the pain
Of the summer’s endless days
When our bodies do not touch
And we wish for August’s haze

It’s been days since we held
Each other in firm embrace
And tender kisses led
To a much warmer place

It’s been hours since I knew
That it wouldn’t be today
That the aching we both feel
Would last another day

It’s been minutes since I touched
Myself the way you do
But my touch cannot compare
To the touch I get from you

Roses are red
And so is this poem
Bethy dared me to rhyme
So now I must show ‘em

But this page hosts words
In sentence and verse
Lines gently erotic
Though sometimes they’re worse

So how can I think
Of petals and flowers
And not dream of lovers
Embracing for hours

Roses have beauty
But are also thorny
Blending pleasure and pain
That might make some horny

So next time you stoop
To delight in a rose
Remember the place
That your stoop will expose

For there may be a man
Whose gaze will not pass
But will pause and then linger
For a glimpse of your ass

So if you’re in this garden
On romantic nights
Watch out for the man
Who in roses delights

———————-

This poem was prompted by TheBethy. And now Lola, Heather, and Tess… I expect you to follow my lead and share a poem that begins with this famous line.

It was a little thing… really
It was a soft touch
Fingertips
Along your cheek
A little thing… really

But the look you gave me
In response
Was a big thing… really

It was a little thing… really
Kisses that drifted down
From your chin
Down your throat
A little thing… really

But the way your breath
Drew in sharply
Was a big thing… really

It was a little thing… really
Lips parted, barely open
Tongue flicking
Lightly your nipple
A little thing… really

But the way your hips
Began to move
Was a big thing… really

Isn’t it wonderful
How the little things
Become big things?

You always greet me at the door in your robe, with nothing underneath…

Bared.

I love burying my face in your neck, drinking in deep from the scents of your body. The scent of your desire, your longing, and your anticipation of this moment. Your robe always seems to part, and reveals the hardness pressing against my chest. My lips are incapable of passing up the opportunity to greet you at the door with gentle kisses and the touch of my tongue. Leading you to the bedroom, and closing the door behind you, allows you to sense my desire. Today, like most days, my body aches for…

Release.

Undressing, and undressing you, gives me a few moments of separation from contact with your body, enough to drive me insane. I cannot help but push you toward the bed, and fall upon you to feel…

Wetness.

The wetness of your body calls to me. It reveals your desire such that, simply moving between your legs, parting them with my own, allows me to enter you while holding both of your hands in mine. My body enters yours effortlessly… easily… drawn into you somehow with the movement of your pelvis and legs, and pushed into you by desire that moves my hips without conscious effort oh so…

Suddenly.

Our bodies are now joined. Seconds become minutes, which would become hours if time were not so cruel as to limit our moments together. The sweat of passion drenches us, giving indication of the mindless desire and lust that our bodies experience as we are…

Face-to-face.

We always begin facing each other, where the fire in my eyes meets the submission in yours. At this point-blank range, these looks would kill mere mortals. In this moment, we are beyond mortality, seeing past the superficial adornments that we call “eyes,” looking straight into each other’s soul. However, there are times that I want to see your…

Back.

Rolling you over, onto your stomach, changes the intensity somehow. You tend to voluntarily move your arms behind your back, as if I were going to put cuffs on you, but when my body presses up against you, and holds your arms between us, such things would be superfulous. From this position, my body enters you a different way… a way that changes your expression, and consumes you with a different sort of pleasure. The mirror in the corner of the room, so wonderfully placed, allows me to look and see your eyes, even as my chest and your back are…

Pressing.

The pressing of your hips back toward me, forcing me deeper inside you, matches my movements exactly. Adding to the pressure, my arm curls around the top of your chest, wrapping you in such a way that the strength of my torso is made evident with every stroke. You feel entered… penetrated… invaded… explored… bound… restrained… you feel wonderfully, powerfully, joyfully…

Fucked.

A challenge laid by golden braids
Of five unknowns in poetic tones

The first, I think, is that I drink
No not at all–no alcohol

The second one, a bit of fun
With gracious ease I please to tease

The third is not, a conscious plot
PB from a spoon, can make me swoon

Now bringing fourth, down from the north
I love the snow and cold wind’s blow

The last of five, my love to drive
My endless need, my need for speed

For Lola a tag, though not one to brag
And in this type weather, I also tag Heather

There is something intangible about wearing leather
A visceral experience
A scent
A texture
An unsettling indwelling in the skin of another
Something primitive
Something animalistic

There is something intangible about joining our bodies
A visceral experience
A scent
A texture
An unsettling indwelling in the body of another
Something primitive
Something animalistic

Today, I saw you in my mind’s eye
Wearing only leather
My mind was awash
In scents and textures

And something primitive
And something animalistic
Caused a part of me, from the core of my being
To indwell, and remain in you

And afterward, you still feel it
And its warmth reminds you
That part of me
Remains in you