Category Archives: Poetry

Just Touch It

I thought you were so cool:

An older, firefighting hero, a senior.

You seemed to wink at me,

An upwards, devilish glance

Across a circle of kneeling, head-bowed bodies.

 

You said you liked smooth skin,

So before your maroon truck pulled up,

I shaved in the little half-bath downstairs,

My parents snoring behind a wall.

 

You rubbed my legs like a cold Buddha statue for luck,

In hopes you’d get what you wanted, not

For the feel of it.

A boy once said to me,

 

A girl will do anything

If you ask her at 3am.

You weren’t that boy,

But somebody must’ve told you.

 

I didn’t ask to see it.

I didn’t want to touch it.

I wanted soft fingers on my face,

I wanted to feel

Your lips on mine. You said baby,

 

You turn me on, come on,

Just put your hands around it.

Just put your hands around it,

Just stroke it a little bit.

Just touch it.

 

The seat divider jabbed into me,

An imaginary elbow saying, “don’t.”

I asked you to kiss me,

You said no,

Kissing is too personal.

 

I don’t remember the smell of your cum,

But I can guess it now: Sour, rotten.

I don’t remember what it looked like,

Except that it bobbed up and down

Like an ugly buoy.

 

It happened more than once,

A ritual, you must have practiced,

You were a lay minister, you knew

The words, the motions.

 

When you weren’t asking for it,

You were telling me about

Her, that perfect girl you couldn’t snare.

I wanted to be that girl,

The one you kissed.

 

Just kiss me,

Just kiss me,

Just kiss me,

My begging was silent, unlike yours:

 

Just put your hands around it,

Just put your hands around it.

Just stroke it a little,

Just touch it.

His for the Night

It was my first time.
I knew he could tell;
His blue eyes reflected
My nervousness, and
His excitement.

“Take off your panties,” he said,
“Leave your heels on.”
I tried my best to look calm
As I slid them off, slowly.
His look was like a touch,

Moving from my feet to my legs,
Pausing at my cunt, then up
To my stomach,
My breasts,
My neck, lingering
On my face.

My skin tingled.
By the time he kissed me,
I was already wet.

He didn’t have to say the words,
I could feel them.
His rough hands pulled me in.

“You’re mine,” they said.

His for the NightPhoto of Jake and I by Steve DeMent Photography

*This image was published in  Fetfan Magazine Issue 04 (p.28)

Sinful Sunday

Silver Siren

With an outstretched arm,
He beckons her, hair
Tousled like fallen leaves, eyes
Partially slitted open.

Climb onto my legs,
He begs, while she stands, bare
Breasts scooping up
Towards the ceiling.

Come, come,
Join us, she says,
Her fingers curl and point.
He wants her.

He doesn’t see the rules
Carved into her flesh,
Invisible and welcomed brands.
Come, she whispers again.

But his fear has set it, and
His nakedness mocks
Like a house of mirrors,
He wants her, alone.

One last try,
But her hand slides
As if oiled in preparation,
A tin woman,

She does have a heart but it’s
Locked beneath silver paint
And aluminum.
She trails off,

Leaving a door open
So he can hear the squeaks
Of her movements, they
Echo like hands, sliding

Over his cool skin.
His groin flexes
As he catches her lingering musky scent.
Come, come, come,

She murmurs.
He stumbles up, half-asleep,
Searching. Come, come,
Come, her whispers

Sliver like snakes
Squeezing the air from his chest.
Her voice is louder now,
Singing behind a corner.

He pivots to find her,
But her hazel eyes aren’t there,
Nor her long, spidery limbs,
Or her messy straw hair.

All that’s left are her lips,
Pink and chaffed from repetition,
They heave open
And then close,

Their wet, hungry gravity
Pulls him in.

Come, come, come,
She whispers.

pennysblog_silversiren

Vanishing


Vanishing

 

Two hands clutch
at my neck,
calloused and steady,
they peel

me apart, one papery
layer at a time.
They don’t ask to
stretch and unravel

my hair like yarn,
nor for the strength
of my teeth and blood.
Plucked and oozing

I drip against cold metal,
I’m caught in momentum,
I hold tight
As my bones crack

and fizzle, and my thoughts
are sucked
into some black hole
in the center.

The bell hums
my last revolution,
and I’m only a fingerprint,
greasy on smooth glass:

I cling,
I linger,

I’m smeared,
I’m wiped clean.

 

sinfulsunday

 

Things I Masturbate To

This poem was inspired by Harmony Eichsteadt’s poem “Things I Have Masturbated To” from the Bedpost Confessions Postcast 9, as well as Harper Elliot, a sex writer who wrote a similar poem. Here is my version.

Things I Masturbate To

Of course there’s the obvious.

My boyfriend’s long curly hair tickling

my thighs as his mouth worships my every

fold, and his thick fingers pulling me to life

from inside out, and then his hard, tall

cock filling me up until I’m overflowing,

until I’m empty of all the come

and sweat and breath I possess.

 

And there are others, those who don’t

realize they exist naked in my head, like

the girl at the dentist’s who cleaned my teeth,

her thick lips hovering above mine like a spaceship,

ready to suck me up, or my friend’s shy roommate,

an old co-worker, a vanilla girlfriend, my Spanish professor,

and the guy who works at 7-Eleven.

 

Often, it’s more abstract, a group of people

whose faces I can’t see, a thousand hands on

my every exposed inch, a crowd cheering,

another couple watching, or even just a hot

mouth stuck on me, requiring only

my come to survive.

 

Sometimes it’s light hearted, wandering

fingers while the TV laughs with me, or my

cat eyeing me curiously on the couch, as I pant

and heave and moan my way

across the finish line.

 

Fiction occasionally joins me as well,

my favorite characters coming to life, dicks

and limbs rising like the dead from my

twisted head, sometimes cold fingers

and fangs or a vicious killer at my neck, my current

favorites are Tate and Dexter, even better

fucking me together.

 

And then there are the stranger ones, alien

tentacles probing and sucking, beastly

creatures with multiple members, headless

figures, and cold lifeless bodies, the burning

grip of the devil incarnate, and ghosts or

demons, but usually not zombies.

 

The hardest to admit, are the ones who could care

less about my consent, dark shadowy figures that

push me down and tie me up. They strike

me and shame me, but I always enjoy it.

These have been with me as long as I can remember,

even as a young girl, pretending to be kidnapped, arms

pulled back at mattress edges, eyes wide and lips

pressed, warmth growing between my little

legs as I am alone with the part of me

that always hides.

 

And sometimes, as someone who reviews

sex toys, it’s just something on my To-do list.

I’m a pioneer for research, thinking rather

un-sexy, almost clinical things like,

how sticky is this lube, and what is that light taste,

citrus? Or I really wish this had a longer

handle, or a wider girth or more texture, or

ow! oh god this thing is murdering my clit,

or I’m fucking glad this toy is waterproof

because I’m about to squirt

all over it.

 

Other times, it’s not really sexual at all, I’m

a blank sheet of paper, my mind

folds into itself, there are no thoughts and no

fantasies, no expectations or how do I look in this position,

or requirements or to-do lists or cleaning

the kitty litter or work or stress, only

 

the steady whiz of my Hitachi, or the quiet

circling of my fingers, only my breath whispering

to itself, my lips and clit blossoming, and the

quickening pace of my blood is enough,

the soft, warm, blanketing feeling,

the simple comfort of balance and equilibrium,

and remembering that my body is not a

separate entity, of holding on and then

most importantly,

of learning to let go again.

 

The First Time

We planned it like witches,

the ragged cut off shorts that cling

to my thighs like hands

and the soft white cloth

 

that adorns my virgin flesh like fresh

paint, lightly covering

a shiny new house.

We prepared the potions,

 

the stew of wine and blood and twigs,

and the yellow of tequila that shall drip

down our stomachs like honey to be licked

and devoured by greedy bees mouths.

 

The whispers will crescendo to loud chants,

and he will hold me from behind, circling

my ripe waist with his clenching

hands. We will repeat our ritual until it becomes

 

Alive and real as a doll, black eyes blinking

and voice crying, “hello, will you play?”

without pulling the string. Once she is alive,

the ritual pulls us instead, we lay still

 

as she strips her clothes and laughs, dancing

and stomping her bare feet around the fire, she breathes

beast like urges between our little legs

until we run on our hands and knees, and rip

 

our clothes into pieces and swallow

each other’s skin and hair.

When the sacred hour of fusing flesh comes, our frantic

energy subsides, giving way to the slow

 

trickle of a pain I’ve never felt, of splitting

my legs like chopped wood, leaving bits of shattered

tissue gathered beneath my hips to rot.

The act isn’t holy in the sense of god

 

but in the sense of something that must

happen, like the spider who must kill

and bury her young in her mate’s limp, warm body,

something which moves her eight legs

 

from a darkness deep within.

When it’s over, she doesn’t regret

the violence, the ritual, or the killing,

and the male thanks her

 

from silent lips for sacrificing his body to Mother

and hungry offspring. Like the spider, my first

kneeled and thanked me

for my gift of blood and flesh,

 

and I grinned and laughed

as I tightened my legs around him like a web.

 

 

 

 

Rain

This poem is about one of my first sexual encounters at 16. It wasn’t my first time (oh no, that one hurt like hell,) but it was with my first partner. While I had my fair share of self conscious moments at that age, this particular experience was spontaneous and uninhibited and one of my favorite first sexual moments.

Rain

Giddy and giggling, you slide
my snug blue-jeans, as I rip
off your soft blue polo shirt, you sigh
and pull a blue square out
of my purse, and for a moment I am

a little girl again, hiding
in a closet, shaky
fingers sliding a newfound
condom on a banana, wide eyes
watching latex swallow
fruit, when you un-snap my bra and snap

me back to your
fingers on my sixteen year old breasts, I beg
you to feel my ripened legs, fuck,
how do you do that?

Outside, rain swallows the park, inside
the car is quiet and dry, so quiet
rain drops echo in thunder, too quiet
for clothes. Desperate for wetness, we
jump out of the car and into

the waterfall, white long sleeves, see
through shirt, no pants no
bra, boxers, panties
fall to ankles, dark
brown hair on blonde, water and
tongue in my ears, icy raindrops like
bombs, exploding on bare
skin, noses, backs, necks, thighs,
fingers, eyes, lips, chests, hips
kissing.

We lie on a picnic table alter, rain
sliding between our bodies like
oil, it smells like grass and dew and
sex and time goes
by as slow as
raindrops,

I can hear the warm
air in our
breaths,
in and out,
clear, wet
prayers.

Kiss Me There

I confess, I want your warm lips
wrapped around, wet and soft, I want
the sound of sucking, the quiet and
subtle whisper of in and out, the look
in your blue eyes when your mouth
is full of me, tongue busy back
and forth and in and out and
around my smooth pale
skin, I need you to lick and touch and
wash my flesh with your lips, I feel
you saying you love every
inch, every part, my eyes, my
wrists, my ears, my legs, and every
hair, and the mole by my belly
button and the black ink on my hip and
the dimple on my chin and the scar
on my left breast, I know you adore all
of me when your solid arms
hold my legs and you
thrust and bring my
toes to your mouth, as you

kiss me there.

 

 

Your Hands

In honor of Jake’s birthday today, I want to share a poem I wrote for him last year. Jake and I don’t usually give big, expensive gifts for birthdays and prefer to just do something fun together. This year I got him a Ron Swanson Pyramid of Greatness tshirt because we are obsessed with Parks and Recreation (it’s even funnier than The Office!)and a pearl snap shirt. I’m not sure what we are going to do to celebrate today since Jake prefers spontaneous fun to planned birthday events. My guess is we’ll probably go to dinner and then downtown, but who knows… And on with the poem:

Your Hands

I knew I loved you the moment you showed me your hands. You said
at some point, I’ve broken each finger, like when you smashed
bike into ground, hands
crumbling on impact, bones crunching and twisting easily
reforming, molding, and shaping
like they were meant to.
You held up your hands, wide palms spread
open and said, now they’re all a little
crooked, each finger points in a slightly different
direction, when you said it you never broke your
expression, not one little crease on your forehead,
no crack in your voice,like
the pain meant nothing, or maybe
you just enjoyed healing. Now,
you lie next to me, with that same calm
face and untroubled expression, and
I’ve only had my eyes open for five minutes but
all I can think is how I want you
to shape me like
clay in your hands, and how I
need to know what it means
to be shattered
and broken, need to feel flesh
healed, to touch
every crooked finger.

Bragging

This poem was inspired by Marie Howe’s poem “Practicing” from What the Living Do,which is one of my favorite poetry books. I wrote the poem in 2009 for a Creative Writing course at UT, and I want to share it here on my blog because it’s one of my favorites and because it’s about the first time I kissed a girl :)

Bragging
The first time I kissed a girl
followed a bottle of watered down vodka
and two Coronas sipped
clean in the dim light of Terry’s apartment,
I had to piss so I pranced
upstairs and when I was done your denim
eyes were there, waiting, your lips
the leader, my tongue
following, we kissed to show-
off, but not for the boys,
that would come later, we kissed
because you and your tiny piano hands
know me better than anyone, because
I am the only one who knows
about the time you stole
your mom’s vibrator, opening
yourself to the idea of pleasure, making room
for boys to come later, we kissed
because I’m the one who convinced
your mom to let you shave your legs
in 6th grade and because we both know
your waterbed sinks just the right amount
with two bodies, we kissed as we
laughed our way downstairs, pulling
Terry off the ripped couch, rooting
his hips to carpet, then we kissed again
kissed him, lips attacking his
unguarded skin, we invaded his chest, then
stomach, arms, beneath
legs, we kept going
until his eyes retreated
into his head and then stopped, stood up
to get another beer, leaving him eyes-
closed on the ground, thinking
This is what we can do.