there are so many ways to be intimate
raw fucks are by no means the pinnacle of orgasmic release
while deep strokes may penetrate my insides harder than sleek fingers ever will
there are aspects of a more subtle approach that cause my core to weep bitter-sweet nectar
until thick inner thighs are glossed over with evidence of sinful acts
bitter in the sense that what is craved is not always right
not always allowed
but what can be more intimate than a dangerously shared secret?
even innocence can be corrupted by a single fleeting thought
a six second moment
like kissing your best friend in the middle of a train station
and pretending it means nothing
because after all she only wanted to know was if she was good enough for her boyfriend
pretending you didn't enjoy devouring her lips not unlike cushions
controlling your sharp intake of breath just before your lips touch
like you didn't enjoy the stares of everyone all around
some disgusted others intrigued
at the gorgeous lesbian sight
maybe more like the poetic justice
of creating sexual tension, raw lust in the middle of a Church
moaning at the alter preaching adultery to empty pews
morning light spilling through the mosaics just in time to witness a snake slither through an untouched garden
something heavenly about the aroma created through a series of nips and sloppy kisses to the neck
all the while grinding ensues, granting invitation to partake in forbidden fruit
an angel held captive in the touch of the forsaken
sometimes you like simple thrills
the ones achieved when you're sitting across from a man in his late twenties
the back of an empty bus at 2 a.m.
thin fabric of a blood red pleated skirt
the only thing stopping him from seeing you bare
you relish the thought
biting your plush lips
a sixteen year old body though you appear anything but
catching him sneaking peaks at caramel legs that seemingly never end makes blood rush to your ears and drive out any voice of reason
that burning glance giving you the confidence to slowly part your legs
pink matter now on full display
for his eyes only, eyes that can't pull away as if under some sirens spell
the sweet smell of arousal rolling off of you in waves
and you catch the slight rise and fall of his chest amazed at his luck
the sight no doubt filling his head the whole ride home back to his family
long after you've exited the ride
•
- a poem I tried writing while I was horny
YOU ARE READING
Beeswax
Poetrythis is a collection of random poems I wrote that surfaced from random feelings read it. you might like it.
