Feb 1, 2013
Posted by Penny on Feb 1, 2013 in Poetry, Writing | 5 comments
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.
Oct 23, 2012
Posted by Penny on Oct 23, 2012 in Dark, Poetry, Writing | 11 comments
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.
Mar 6, 2012
Posted by Penny on Mar 6, 2012 in Erotic Writing, Poetry | 2 comments
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.
