Found this poem on an old site – The Literary Courtesan. Poem by Enya Bouche. She no longer blogs, too bad, I really like her work.
“I want to taste your history,” he said,
his tongue at the entrance to me.
“You taste like salted honey,”
I thought of ancient lands,
of honey offered to
I felt myself begin
to flow toward him,
Offering myself to him,
wanting his tongue there,
the nugget of me
I began to open then,
to feel my secrets
seep from me,
into his mouth,
his gentle mouth that felt
like the legs of the bee
upon my flesh.
I felt the buzz then within me,
a hum of a thousand bees beneath my mons,
so I thought he
might hear it,
this thing that was moving like a swarm
I felt myself rise under his mouth, felt
myself push against his lips and tongue and chin,
myself the offering,
myself the goddess.
These words were recited by Frances at one of the first Salons. She was recalling her first sexual experience.
Frances‚ Resident nonagenarian
I was five ‚ playing on the sidewalk of my parent’s grocery store. An old man, bent over and holding a cane said he’d give me a penny if I kissed him. I kissed him quickly and he gave me a copper penny ‚that matched the man. It was green with age.
I don‚t remember if I said, “Thank you,” but I remember running into the store and buying a piece of candy.
Now, years later, I still kiss old men ‚ only now its for free.
The following erotic poem site was lost in the shuffle of changing to wordpress.org So very glad Professor Singh found us again. Perhaps someday the professor will grace our Salon and be a featured reader. I suspect the minor detail of distance – India, might present an obstacle. I hear traffic in India is even worse than some of our highways.
Do visit his site, the erotic poems are divine.
This is a short, short story I read at a Salon in June 2008,
¬†After twenty-five years, she still aches, remembering graduation eve.¬† Wind ruffling the reservoir and his raven curls.¬† Kisses and hands.¬† What if they had been braver, sooner?
“I’m glad we could meet.” His silver-laced hair is wild as ever.
Her blush speaks clearly.¬† His eyes question.¬† She surrenders.
She opens to him, letting him drive her into fever.¬† In flames, she dreams of ravishment.
He impales her.¬† She savors his roughness.¬† Then their connection fades.¬† She lies beneath a stranger.
Tears of regret gather.¬† He jerks his hips. She strokes his hair sadly as her dream evaporates.