Monday, February 29, 2016

Circadian - An Erotic Poem


Shrugging the chenille robe from
my otherwise naked body, I bend over
to pick up yesterday’s sweater from the floor.
“Let me see,” he says, reaching across the bed
as if his arm might stretch past the
indentation of my body, the wrinkled sheets,
just to touch the bareness of my backside
before I get dressed.

“I thought you’d be bruised,” he says.
I reach back to squeeze the flesh in question.
“I’m tender,” I tell him, “but I could go again.”
Dizzying warmth runs through me as I recall
last night’s steady stroke of the paddle,
not so softly and not too hard but just right,
so right that the paddling was like sex, my body,
his body, and the paddle a stand-in for his cock,
rocking me forward and back. I met it
with my hips, my hands grasping the blanket
I knelt upon, I gasped as I realized
the paddle might make me come.

My head was made of light as we paused,
my ass still bouncing in the air even without
the paddle. “That was incredibly fucking sexy,”
he growled and I pushed my hips back, sure that
the glisten of moisture dripping down my thighs
would be invitation enough, but just in case
I begged him, “Please, inside me, please,” no other words
possible but he was already grabbing me and
halfway inside, everything behind my eyelids
glowing amber, body turned to fire.

Slipping the sweater over my head, the morning sun
striping the bedroom walls through Venetian blinds,
I slip back into bed, my back to him so he can cup
my warm and sore but unmarked bottom.
He rests his head by my shoulder and tells me,
“Then we can do it all over again tonight.”
Sighing peacefully, I tilt my head so that his beard and lips
are pressed against me. “Or we could start now,” he
offers, but I can wait, I want to wait, and so

I rise and walk through patterns of light towards
clothes, then coffee, then everything the day will bring.
Towards bed, then surrender, then sleep.

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