Naughty and Nice

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I will be a gift to you,
one of sheer pleasure and delight.

I will leave my door open for you
like I always do,
and wait,
hidden away
in my bedroom,
where our holiday revelry
will be held.

Hearing your approaching footsteps
I can’t help but quiver with excitement,
like a giddy child waking on Christmas morning, eager for treats.
My nipples tingle and harden
and my pussy clenches and throbs;
dripping with wetness,
at the sound
of the doorknob turning,
at the sight you,
slipping stealthily
in the door.

The best things in life are free, you know,
and my love
don’t cost a thing.
I will wrap myself
in pretty lingerie for you,
festively adorn the curves of my body.

So open me up,
tear at the ribbons and bows,
peel away the coverings,
spank me if you like
for being so naughty.

Now part my thighs
and you give me
MY present.

Forager for Love

Love is so multifaceted. We each have a vision for it. What is yours like? This poem expresses one of my own.

eroticapoetica

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Foraging,
I savor wild radish flowers,
cleanly spicy on the tongue;
pineapple bush blossoms;
subtly sweet, like fruit;
sow thistle leaves,
grassy, fibrous, prickly-edged,
bitter.
I long to lose myself in the lush richness
of the forest,
in her many tastes and textures.
To dance to the wildness of her nature symphony, her green plant music, of vines and ferns, of weeds and herbs…
To drink tree sap;
to suck thistle milk
from seeds.

To kiss berries with my lips.

I am one who craves communion.
Always longing to immerse myself
within the beauty
of a different
dream.
To commune with other aspects
of this one creation…

We can share our sorrows and our earned wisdom. Our ancient secrets, that we still hold hidden.
I will love you for who you are.
You will love me for who I am.

So I disappear
into the earthen heart
of the forest.

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Like the Falling Snow

One November night

I drove up the steep slope

of the 4th of July Pass;

plowed through sheets of fresh snow,

all starry white, glazed with sparkling frost,

headed towards Coeur D’Alene,

towards home.

 

You were lying next to me,

your breath rising and falling in my ears,

fogging the windshield,

your body slack with sleep.

 

I sank into the heated leather seat of my Jetta,

blared the defroster,

listened to Habib Koite softly crooning,

as my heart stretched

over all of I 90,

expansive and wide and wild as Montana,

clenching and breaking with too much love for you,

knowing that soon

you would leave.

 

Yet that moment was silent

and serene

like the falling snow.

The Birth of eroticapoetica

I guess I was born to write erotic poetry he he.

I decided I wanted to be a writer when I was 6 years old.  I was just learning to read and write at that time.  I loved the thought of being able to express all the vast richness of my inner experience, all the beauty, all the mystery.  I had memorized the names of the authors of my favorite children’s books and they were my heroes.  Writing was considered a glorious achievement in the bookish, intellectual environment that I grew up in (near Harvard University).

I kept little diaries as a child, making entries every once in awhile, whenever the whim struck me, mostly mundane tales about the day’s events or an overwrought description of some place that I had visited.  However these tepid entries bored me; what I longed to write about was the thing that was most interesting in my life: my crushes on boys, the consuming passion around which my days revolved.

But I was scared to give voice to this subject, as I considered it so taboo.  My desirous feelings, my vulnerability, my sensuality, all seemed too private and shameful a secret to openly divulge.  I worried that my mother might discover my diaries and read them.  Dating, sexuality and romance was an uncomfortable topic in my family.  It was not really discussed, or if it was, it was accompanied by an embarrassed giggle.  I think it was not regarded as wrong so much as simply uncomfortable.

When I was in high school I fell in love for the first time, lost my virginity, and I also wrote my first poems, which were published in a high school journal.  One was inspired by my first lover.  It contained some references to things that were meaningful for me in that relationship, some details from nights we had spent together, but it was still vague and allusive, only indirectly romantic.  My mother was impressed with the poem, as were the teachers who published it.

When I was in college in New York, I wrote a poem for one of my writing classes.  This one was inspired by a moment in the summer when I was swimming in a Massachusetts lake and the guy that I had a crush on at the time appeared on the beach (looking hot in his swimsuit!), but did not see me.  I had been deliberately vague about the emotional content; the poem had what I thought were oblique references to my desirous feelings.  And yet my teacher enthusiastically analyzed the poem at length in front of the whole class as an erotic poem.  Apparently it was full of erotic metaphors that even I was not aware of!

I was very unsophisticated at that time when it came to sexuality.  I had only had one boyfriend.  I liked sex with him sometimes, but mostly just kissing and making out was appealing to me, not the sex act itself.  I had not yet figured out how to have an orgasm during sex.  Sometimes with him I would wish sex could just be over already as I didn’t know how to make it more pleasurable for me.  He got interested in porn and wanted to experiment with different things yet I found that all unpleasant and degrading, a little scary.  I had been masturbating since I was a little girl and I liked that, but I considered it almost irrelevant to sex with a partner.  I felt that was my own thing, between me and the gods alone.

It was many years and a handful of boyfriends later when I really started to become comfortable with sex.  With one caring, accepting partner I felt brave enough to touch myself during sex the way that I did when I masturbated; lo and behold I was able to cum with him inside me.  That was a watershed moment for me.  I think too many women never feel safe enough to allow themselves the space to find what it is that will make sex truly pleasurable for them.  Often they feel pressured by various sources, religion, society, their partner, etc. for things to be a certain way.  From my experience, I would say that first you have to know how to give yourself pleasure, then you have to be willing to share that with your partner, and you may be surprised by what comes (cums?) he he.

It was only after I moved to California a couple of years ago that I met my current lover, the star of many of my poems.  With him I got to experience sex in a way that was far beyond what I ever could before.  I had always dreamt, like I think many people do, of one day having really fantastic mind-blowing passionate sex.  Sex I had before had been good, nice, pleasant.  But something about the chemistry between me and this guy is so right that our sex has always been phenomenal, from the very first time.  It is creative, fun, intense, emotional.  And with time it only keeps getting better.

Not long after I first met this lover, after only a few months had passed, I thought (erroneously it turned out) that the relationship was over.  I was sad, grieving my loss, and still wanting to be with him again at the same time.  I was walking around San Francisco, feeling all those powerful feelings, and suddenly a poem appeared on the horizon of my mind.  I could perceive the shape of it, the way you can sense the rain hidden in the clouds, and I was shocked because this was a sexually explicit poem. I was shocked and delighted at the same time.  I saw the possibility to walk through a doorway into being someone who I always wanted to be but never had been before: the girl who writes openly about her deepest, most passionate feelings and desires.

I went and sat down in a coffee shop and that poem poured out of me like a flood.  It is one of the earliest poems that I posted on this blog.  This is it:

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Last Encounter, A Poem

There is a place
in a far away dreamtime
where you and I
make love
on Indian Time.

That is, outside of time entirely.
Ethereally,
in lucid fantasy.

Desires percolate in rich imagery,
become enunciated in language;
we talk dirty to one another,
savoring our
fervid words
in our waiting bodies,
that burn with anticipation…

Then we meet,
in this imaginary place,
this luxurious bedroom
of dreamtime,
rabid with hunger for each other.
Lips kiss artfully, eyes stare each other down,
tongues go wild,
consuming,
devouring
every inch
of one another,
mixing salty skin with saliva,
hard and soft mingling,
becoming wet, messy,
with the juices
of our passion…
Deliciously wet.

In this dreamy realm of sex,
I suck your cock and swallow you whole.
I drink the elixir of your cum
and it fortifies me to fuck you endlessly.
Here you enter me every which way, spit on me, slap me, bite me,
lick gently the hollow of my back,
delicately,
as you penetrate me from behind,
in and out…
Exquisitely.

Here all fantasies are fulfilled and still more emerge,
as we each understand perfectly
the humanity of each other,
intuitively,
sensitively.

And so we twist our bodies every which way
in pleasure,
moan, scream, pant, speak vulgar poetry to one another…
I eat your ass as you do me, doggy style,
I suck, over and over again your cock, wet
from being inside
the tightness of my asshole;
you reach your fingers up into my pussy,
pressing skillfully,
while you fill me, fuck me,
and make me cum,
again and again,
until we both ejaculate all over each other,
savoring the sweetness of our own nectar,
with our tongues
licking, sucking, kissing, teasing,
playfully…

Rhythmically, gracefully…

So hot…

So this is dreamtime,
a fleeting dream, real,
imagined, insubstantial, surreal,
an ephemeral imago
of making love to
to Santiago.

Time Passes As Wind

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Like birds, we fly free
from each moment
we find ourselves perched within.

Time passes as wind
blowing through trees.

One day I lay curled within the nest
of your warm embrace.
Hatched the delicate blossoming
of my love
like a fragile pale blue egg.
And within the shyly forming shell,
grew dreams,
rich and sunny like yolks.

I could not help but harbor
those fledglings;
nurture them
beneath my careful wings.

Midwife them into being with my will.

Yet even if they live…
with time they’ll still fly away.