I think there sould be more talk during sex.
As a writer, I know a well-spoken word can inspire:
“You really looked good in that new dress.”
“You do that just the right way.”
“Oh, you fuck me soo good!”
( Not very clever, but tried and true. )
It’s good to communicate more, so
pre-foreplay, I prepare a couple of lines.
But, when I’m kissing your neck;
when I’m sucking your nipple;
when I’m licking your inner thigh;
hey! I’m busy here! Who’s got time to talk?
Then, you do something tricky
with your fingers on my cock
and my screen goes blank--
I can’t recall my name.
This exqusite pleasure
lands me in a mental fog bank.
“Say something” I urge me.
That’s when you hear a slow grunt
rumble up from my throat.
It’s some consolation that you’re not speaking either.
Only the sound of your breath close in my ear
changing from exhaled “mmmm” to inhaled “aah”.
Fortunately, my motor skills haven’t shut down.
The fingers of one hand below you and one above
have raised a moisture that dribbles toward your butt.
I’m able to make figure eights in this slippery place,
but language has escaped me.
Speechless. Thoughtless. We’re on autopilot.
You want me from behind and pull me in with your fist.
Slow, slippery strokes
work in rhythm with fingers on your clit and one up your ass.
Now all I can hear is static--the white noise of pleasure
in my body and my brain.
copyright scjones 2001
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