I was not drooling

I wanted to but

do have enough restraint not to

at least not in public 


I was not sticking my tongue

where it shouldn’t be

only where it was invited to be

I need encouragement

before I let it dart


before I let it it follow

a trail of drool

along your backbone

to between your butt cheeks



never satisfies

the way your shudders do

your moan

as I teasingly invade

that territory


you never see that tongue

you only feel it

What! Another poem about sex! Is that all you think about? Shouldn’t there at least be a trigger warning – innocent children might read this & have their entire sense of a moral sexual self ruined. Children who can’t tell the difference between the reality of Iron Man & the fantasy of RuPaul.

Writing about sex while keeping it erotic presents its own set of challenges. Clinical detachment vs sensuously ambiguity. No this piece isn’t ambiguous by any means but at the same time isn’t fetishistically detailed either. No smells. No tastes. (Until now that is because saying that probably brings those tastes, smells to mind.)

The piece, if you read it to the end, becomes perhaps more experiential than you may want, or leaves you wanting more vivid details, or makes you wish you had never read it at all. It might make you judge me – like judging someone by what they wear around the house as opposed to what they wear in the street. ‘Oh – so that’s what he’s really like.’

Did part of you immediately think this was a true story – that it was confessional, deeply personal poetry. Poets don’t write fiction. Write about you know, there is no room for imagination- in fact room for imagination is getting smaller – white male writers can only write from a white male pov or risk being labeled as racist misogynists. 

Did I teasingly invade your thinking?

Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee – sweet,eh? 

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