Jul 6, 2013
It was my first time.
I knew he could tell;
His blue eyes reflected
My nervousness, and
“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 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.
Photo of Jake and I by Steve DeMent Photography
Jun 6, 2013
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.
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
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,
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,
Apr 20, 2013
Two hands clutch
at my neck,
calloused and steady,
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
into some black hole
in the center.
The bell hums
my last revolution,
and I’m only a fingerprint,
greasy on smooth glass:
I’m wiped clean.
Feb 1, 2013
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
of learning to let go again.
Oct 23, 2012
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.