Memory of Days in Paris

A youthful indiscretion, never forgotten

This is my homage to Oggbashan, whose poetry is always enjoyable to read. His poem “The Hairs on Her Arm” inspired this poem of memory, of times lost but never forgotten. Thank you, Oggbashan, for your ever-welcoming presence on Literotica and incessantly cheerful attitude that contributes to making writing a joy.

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How I hated the men who aggressed me
As I sat on the terrace, a turbulent sea
Of smokers, of drinkers, of posers, and me

Not left alone when the sun caught a thigh,
Switched next to my pants; no relief felt I;
I always had matches to give men a light
Ever polite in a quest not to fight

And I never appreciated the delights of my plight.

Now older, I sit outside, with my tea
And nary a man makes a run at poor me
My fuckable days are over, I see
Short skirts or tight pants? Still no chance, more’s the pity!

How I miss the past days of my too sexy youth
The opportunities wasted, as I look back now
Yes, the men were abhorrent, you could say uncouth
But they wanted my body to play with, and how!

For that one time I caved; let the man have his go
Was a moment of weakness, nobody would know!
What a tart I had been as he led me away
To his seedy abode; I recall to this day

The paint from the wall peeling down with decay
The filth of his mattress, stained from a day
When tarts like myself had been led there to play
‘Twas a moment of weakness had led me astray

Thrown onto the bed with the roughness I dread
Turned me on for some reason, obscure in my head
My clothing removed, his urgency sped
‘Cross River Stix, as my legs – how they spread!

Foreplay’s for losers I’m sure he would say
No need for it then I was wet as the day
That the streets of Miami flooded my way
Home from the beach on my best day of play

I bucked underneath him and moaned up a storm
No act was it then; my desire too strong
Rough sex and the sleaze of it all was so wrong
I lived country music; my life through a song

I remember that time as I now drink Campari
As the sun lights my knee and a bit of my thigh
I remember the days of that rogue man and I,
Lost in our lust, what he gave me was nigh

A pleasure of memory ‘till the day that I die.