Chub – Bad Girl

You might have thought that
A woman who toys with verbs, like another woman twirls her hair,
faced nose to nose
with you,
full of lust,
would bubble the air with her heated phrases,
and abundant smut.

What must you think of me?
When you ask me
to express
my wicked thoughts
and I laugh
and blush.
and turn my face away.
A woman who could wax poetic with pen in hand
about the color and line of your cock,
who uses language to sport like a satyr,
silent.

That same woman
flushed
throat closed
is barely able to smile at you as you tease her
overwhelmed with intense longing.
No fluid sonnets,
no vile and wanton enticements rise to her curled tongue.
No words come out at all.

My lips rest against each other like traitors
as my heart dips and flies, soaring reckless in my chest.
My ears pound, my throat heats, I am your mute poet.

My thoughts tangle in a helpless pile like my panties at my feet.
I cover silky words with my toes,
and feel them licking my arches.

“Say you are a bad girl.”

I laugh.
I cannot.
Your voice is warm and animal.
“All right, say you are a naughty girl then.”

I mina bird back to you what you have asked for,
as unoriginal as a pull string doll,
aware of the ridiculousness of both the words you ask for,
and how challenging it is for me to find voice for them.

You draw me to you,
and take us both into other spaces that have no words,
blessed freedom.
Little spiders in dusty corners
bear witness to our brazenness.
The clock sighs.
The curtain ripples with longing,
responsive to the attentions of the space heater.

Late,
I feel,
the delicate tickle of language.
Your breath deep and slow rises and falls before me,
I am peaceful
and sated.

“I am a bad girl.”
The words you ask for
are whispered as secrets against your skin.
My punctuation, defined with feather light touches.
Love paints with breath.

I give you,
your words
unable to deny you
anything and still sleep.
My toes tuck under the covers,
and I rest against your broad and reliable back.
My dreams
are sweet.