- Erotic Poetry
- The Crevice
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It was not deep
(though deep enough, and deeper than I dared)
It was not cold
(even when she was cold)
It was not it, but them:
Between her smallish breasts,
a flatness between bashful mounds;
Skin like India paper over breastbone,
Sloping sideways, up to pink, emboldened nipples.
Between her boyish cheeks,
(Though pale, softer than any boy's)
As she lay wakeful, dreaming, on her stomach
A place for my maddened phallus to slip and slide
Up and down, back and forth,
The softest underskin of my cock stroking
sliding
slipping over
(but not yet entering) the smallest hole,
the backside trench damp with sweat
and the impatient dribblings of my passion,
my cockhead thumping against her tailbone.
And between her thighs,
the crevice that became a dripping, gaping chasm
yet not wide, nor loose, but grasping and tight
then bucking impatiently
my pubis grinding the twitching bud at the top
until we both were bruised and sated.
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