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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.

 

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