PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

We met at the Ivory Peg on New London Road

in Chelmsford, both drinking a yard of Bass Ale;

glitter adorned her face, celebrating an occasion

that I actually cannot remember. Leaving sluggish

around the corner, staggering to Chelmer Hotel

on Hamlet Road where I lodged for more than

two weeks. She was entirely beautiful, and I still

do not see what she saw in me, yes, propitious

me undressing with a beguiling lady - donning

two astounding breasts; most women in England

do, luminosity equal to full moon, outsized orbs

peering via tiny mirror at her body, oh, I was

also. Resplendent too dull a word to describe legs

like banquets magnified and traversing my bed,

downy velvet skin, fragrant smells, blossoming

scents I reminisce, lingering on my moustache

for days after sliding down persuasive thighs; ears

tight against limbs as she urged into my face,  

a signal for my tongue to lick the intensity. Juices

dripping down my cheeks; teaching lesson one:

men who are truly good lovers never graduate

from women willing to teach them. Melting you

into liquefied butter from vaginal heat, penetrating

like a bee to extract honey, sticking deep into her

pouch, goddess nectar lubricating your phallus

as you slip through halls of infinity, where time

elongates sensation for chaps willing to sustain

long enough to learn. Minus doubt I never met

a woman who became my repentant lover;

though I sojourn the virgins, compulsive instinct

will never match submissions to experience. Thus

like cracking whips wild orgasms tamed me, as my

penis purge rendered me helpless to the squeeze

of a cervical embrace, drained into biotic wonder -

plastering a womb where desire rejoices every

spectrum of carnality; blissful sexual eulogies

leading into a lustful examination of what she had

to offer, as we began – tutorial number two.