A Strange and Curious Fellow

Author's Note:
This is my contribution to the Oggbashan Tribute. It contains various English cultural references as well as vague tips of the hat to these stories:
Thermal by Jeanne d'Artois,
Alice's Wonderland by Oggbashan.
EB.

* * * *

corsets, silk stockings:
the clothes make the man.
leather jackets and a fast motor-bike,
out the watford gap and a ton up the M1,
slower with the side-car but that's around town,
red lips and a pout and a skirt that rides up.
wear mine, she says, and he does.

* * * *

squeeze me tightly, she says,
so tightly.
like a hand in a vice? he asks.
more forgiving, a wet, soft place, my cunt
on your cock. I'll grip you five ways
four fingers and a thumb around your shaft.
I won't let go. she holds him down on the bed.

* * * *

if I held a piece of cloth
it would be the gusset of knickers
worn by a handsome woman,
tall, big breasted and wet when she walks.
cotton to hold her scent for my nose, silk
to slide come from my cock,
or lace to match the tablecloth, with tea.

* * * *

tighter?
you want it tighter?
yes.
impossible sheath till lungs compress
and breath stops and all there is
is exquisite release.
orgasm is a little death, she said.
remember that before you die.
I can't breathe.
you're coming, I said you would.
oh good boy, there's a nice mess.
breathe.

* * * *

diana dors knew it, marilyn too,
princess diana knew it; but she was a little bit shy.
grace kelly and tippi hendren knew it;
the french girl with lovely long legs,
they all knew it.
fuckable women every one in tight dresses.
they all knew it.
a gentleman prefers blondes.

* * * *

alice wore a blue dress, she's all grown up.
she's on a different planet,
found an accountant and fucked.
eat me, she said,
drink me, everything changes.
I'll devour you, rebirth you,
are you my baby?
there's comfort in a woman's breast
when the milk lets down, drink it up.

* * * *

I've drunk milk from my mother
I've drunk milk from my wife
whiskey from bottles, wine from cups
semen scooped up on my fingers
piss in my mouth, drink it up.
it's an acquired taste, it's a delight.
we can't fuck, I'm bleeding.
I don't mind. you'll always taste fine.

* * * *

fifty words, what the fuck?
how can you limit
the number of words?
I can't do it. I need to write
like a snake in eden
circling the apple, climbing the tree,
writhing between eve's legs
tasting her there.
forget about freud, she's a woman.
fifty words are never enough.

* * * *

I'd write a woman in a tight dress
and undo fifteen buttons.
he'd write a woman in a tight dress
and pull on the cords to make it tighter.
but one thing is clear:
there's one thing for sure,
we both love our women.
but I don't climb inside mine.

* * * *

I'll cheat, call this poetry.
sneak it in under the word limit for a story.
I can't get to 750 words,
not really, not this way.
it's not a tombstone, nor an epitaph;
just some words for a strange and curious fellow.

on a cliff. on that rock, over there -->>