It’s Christmas you perverts; did you really think I was going to have the time to be thoughtful and imaginative when I have family and roommates and presents (oh, presents) to handle. For fuck’s sake, I stayed up til 3:15am finishing one of the gifts I gave (a blanket that was suppose to have been given back in August; yup, it took that long).
However, since you actually ventured to my little internet hideaway, I won’t leave you wanting. For your enjoyment, I’ve posted some of the pieces I wrote in my grimy poetry house days. Yes, that means I cheated. Good thing my Daddy hasn’t arrived yet. Otherwise I’m sure my ass would have gotten a right good lashing (and he’d call it my Christmas gift).
So enjoy these oldies but goodies:
She laid across the chaise,
an odalisque of ebon marble,
with a kir in one hand,
and her raven coif flowing over her bare chest.
Con fuoco eyes seized me,
ordering my entrance into the chasm within her.
Our torrid bodies coagulated until,
in the cacophony of our screams,
my chastity escaped from my body into her.
Small little peaks,
Small little moments,
He sat next to me,
Crouched over in the chair,
Angled away from me, just so.
His shirt slipped up, and,
At his belt line,
A patch of skin from his back was displayed.
With all my restraint
And all my strength,
I kept from brushing my fingertips,
Or just flat out licking,
That delicate exposed area
I longed to make mine.
What I want
If I wanted sex, I’d always look cute.
Primp my hair, makeup on my face.
Boots to the knee to keep up the pace.
If I wanted sex, no shoe would be flat.
Every skirt would be short,
Every shirt showing cleavage. No pants.
If I wanted sex, I would be demure, sweet
Smile on my face, roses on my cheek.
But I don’t want sex; I want to fuck.
Cause your pretty little sex just isn’t enough.
Categorised as: Poem
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