Comport Thyself

Was it more than a fling?
Or just a dance?
Past lovers knew it was the dance.
Did she?
We have always loved… love,
And recollections of debauched encounters?
Disquieting!
Can carnal fun be done without redress?
Base desires come to the surface in unexpected times.
No youthful indiscretions today.
History lends itself to expertise.
For her there was no return, no forgiveness, no understanding!
She was there in all her womanly form.
Can you come out and play?
You know I do play well with others.
That smiling, giggling face looking back at me.
Does time stand still when we make love?
Memory locks in the feel of supple skin.
The hands remember the firm bountiful breasts.
You change, I change, but we do not forget the yesterday we make today.
Is it time to sit back and drink fermented juice?
Call up another memory of given pleasure?
Soft swipes of her tongue on the underside.
Exquisite pleasure of her touch.
The pleasure of her tongue so robust.
Needs so close at hand and yet drifting.
How long will she walk the edge with me?
Can pleasure seem like flying?
The rupture is close at hand.
The majestic eruption wants to fire through my loin.
My mind falling as if gravity has disappeared.
Two fingers pierced the place and reached the spot.
Pressure beyond belief.
The edge slipped away with continued sweet release.
A low hum keeps the momentum going.
This bewitching female imp has got a grip on me.
Is turnabout fair play?
Did you catch me off guard?
Your lips now on mine, you love to make love.
Her soft hand on the back of my neck.
Holding tightly to my lips exchange.
I am being pulled in again with heat and fire.
Tongues connect with a flash of desire.
So erogenous the region of the mouth.
Magical feelings in strange places.
I breathe your breath and slide on down.
The hard cherries so sweet.
Sending electrical messages everywhere.
And the dampness of sweet vapor’s pheromones.
Hidden messages flow from these sweet smells.
The stubble is but a harbinger of an entrance way.
Lava is running down the valley.
Sweet nectar rings in my brain through taste.
The heat is more than a fever.
Whisking moisture moves with the pressure.
Turgid button reaches out for contact.
Quiver feelings as if falling in.
Small quakes resound in sharp jerks.
Now again her edge is ridden.
And held there and held there in a song.
The higher shudder but is closely there.
A small insertion thrust to that special place.
A lift that bears no explanations.
And pressure around yet held there yet again.
As if the lodged release will not come.
It happens now without want or will.
The envelope flows again and again.
It will not stop now; the instrument is well played.
Slowly the tide begins to run.
The French have named it well.
La petite mort so true.