Erotic Poem: “These Things”

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It’s been a while since I’ve posted, but this little nugget popped into my free write this morning, so I thought I’d share.


He’s the guy who works for your dad, at the auto repair shop, who wouldn’t turn you down if you hit on him when you were sixteen.

Fifteen, he might raise an eyebrow. Depends on how many beers he’s had. He’d offer you one. Maybe a cigarette, too.

He’d make fun of you a little, quirk his lip around the bottle, and stare openly at your breasts. If you kissed him, he’d kiss you back, but not first. Never first.

Sometimes, these things just happen.

He might finger you, but he wouldn’t go down. Not this time.

At least he’d let you look into his eyes while he fucked you. And he wouldn’t ask “Was that your first time?” until after he’d already come.

Little Red

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(Originally posted to Tumblr on Nov 30, 2014)

The trees riot as wind chimes rattle their bones against the onslaught. That long, forceful howl. I could swear I heard a crunch, thick boots in packed snow, a broad silhouette—black on white, eyes shut tight against cold.

But my fire, it crackles, shooting sparks to maple floors and Persian rugs, thick beds of lanolin spread wall-to-wall. I writhe, wrapped loose in red gauze, as cedar moans.

You look frozen, traveler. Frost clinging to brown scruff, cheeks and lips chapped, fingers and toes numb to touch; eyes and mouth ravenous.

There’s bread on the hearth and soup on the stove, but, tell me, wolf in ram’s clothes:

If I let you in, will you swallow me whole?

Hands cupping bowls, cup my breasts, tongue in folds.

When hips buck, hold them down, drink your fill, claim your crown.

What big eyes you have, what sharp teeth—

The better to ravage you with, my red treat.

Now, feast.

Inspire Me

(Originally posted to Tumblr on Nov 5, 2014)

“If I asked you to write me a poem, would you?”

“No.” I smile.

“Why not?”

He tucks an errant curl behind my ear.

I shift onto my knees and the mattress groans.

“Because it doesn’t work like that.”

He smirks. “Do you ever write poems about me?”

I shrug.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means whatever you think it means.”

“Why so vague?” He laughs.

“Because.”

I straddle his hips.

“Because what?”

“Because, if I say ‘Yes,’ then you’re always going to wonder if something I’ve written is about you. And if I say ‘No,’ you’ll be disappointed no matter what I write.” I trace his jaw with my finger.

“You might be right.”

“Better to remain mysterious.” I wink.

He shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m just looking out for your fragile male ego.”

He grasps my wrist and pulls me flush against his chest. “It is quite fragile.”

“I know.” I kiss the tip of his nose.

He wraps his palm around the back of my neck and holds me there, our lips almost touching. “I just want to mean something to you.”

“Of course you mean something to me.”

“No, I know. But—” He swallows. “I want to inspire you.”

I taste his lips. “Go on, then. Inspire me.”

Guest Poem: “Heels and Scratch” by MrFoxwood

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Happy Friday!

This past week has been chock full of writing and revisions, both for my WIP and my short story submission to Frisky Feminist Press’s Coffee Romance anthology. Unfortunately, that means I haven’t had much time to work on other things (like blogging).

Fortunately, I have a madly talented writer friend who is willing to donate his well-crafted verse in my stead!

MrFoxwood, or Will, as I’ve come to know him, is an erotic poetry and fiction writer with whom I’ve had the immense pleasure of corresponding and workshopping. His work is vivid, lyrical, and oh-so-stimulating. I encourage you to check out his primary blog, 13th step study, where he posts poetry and other literary musings; his secondary blog, not so secret stash, where you can find a sampling of his original artwork and photography, plus other titillating visuals (often NSFW); and his Literotica profile, where you can read some of his short erotic fiction (FYI, some of the banner ads are NSFW).

This poem is one of my favorites.

Heels and Scratch

Heels on marble floor,
all prim and purpose,
prick my ears,
raise my head from the paper,
you’re immaculate,
you’d lick your hand to remove a stray seed from your shirt.

I don’t want to hear you purr,
I want to lose your control,
I want cat-scratch and scream.

I want one heel lost,
and a hell of a lot more than one stray seed on your shirt,
I want fingers fumbling fastenings,
and digits duelling underthings,
and under things.

I want perfume that intoxicates,
stubble on your throat,
scotch exhaled over your ear,
and hands pinned.

I want dog chase cat around your hotel room,
I want you to give as good as you get,
bite for bite,
scratch for scratch.

For the Love of Poetry

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Shortly before the end of my first semester at college, I became acquainted with an English teacher who self-identified as “hard to please.” A polarizing force, students either loved or hated her—most often the latter—and for some mysterious reason, she took a liking to me.

I remember sitting across from her in the café of a bookstore that no longer exists on the corner of Church and Cherry. We ordered tea, chose a seat by the window, and chatted for a solid hour about various topics pertaining to writing and academia. A published author herself, she was remarkably encouraging.

At the time, I was writing a lot of poetry and personal narrative and she had asked me to bring along a few pieces she hadn’t already read for class. She noted that the majority of my poems were about love and then made the casual remark that love was a common theme amongst young people, as though it were something that one would naturally outgrow.

Seven years and two degrees later, I still think about this comment.

I went through an extended creative dry spell after transferring schools and switching majors, but on those rare occasions when I felt the tug of the elusive muse and put pen to paper, out would pour those old, familiar sentiments: love, lust, heartbreak. The phrasing was different (as were the subjects) but the desire to gather my emotions and translate them into something tangible was still there.

Love, passion, intimacy—these are the things that stir my muse; the forces upon which I’ve chosen to construct my creative foundation.

I’ve heard it argued that all writing is an act of love, whether it’s love of another person, an ideal, or a deep appreciation of story. By that logic, even hate mail can be construed as an act of love and most certainly an act of passion—albeit perverse—for what is hate if not the space between the way something is and the way we wish it to be? Hate requires a great deal of emotion and care, unlike indifference, which is arguably harder to stomach.

Perhaps all poems are love poems, in a sense.

I don’t think I will ever outgrow love poetry insofar as I do not think it is possible to outgrow love. I’m not talking about infatuation, though even that has its virtues, if only to remind us that we’re still bleeding and breathing. No, I’m talking about the kind of love that seeps into your bones and lingers for years, even decades, long after the initial belly-flip has flopped and butterflies have flown. I also do not limit my definition of “love poetry” to romantic attachment, since one could argue that poetry pertaining to friendship and filial tenderness is just as valid and potentially longer-lasting.

The English teacher and I have since fallen out of touch. I like to think that she’d be glad to know that I’m writing again, even if my subject matter has only gotten—ahem—more explicit as I explore the deeper, darker corners of love and intimacy.

I’m curious. For those who write about love, sex, passion, attraction, etc., how has your work changed over time? Were there periods in which you found yourself veering away from these topics, consciously or coincidentally? What sorts of reactions do you provoke when you explain (or even show) you work to others?

Body Language

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Those words, not mine, I covet

These hands, not yours, I feign

If twain should e’er meet and trade places

They’d parley a language, profane