Erotic Poem – Touch

The following poem was read at the Salon on June 17, 2008. A lovely poem. I think many women, as I have, can relate to this poem.


By John

It’s in the hands, Sir.

It starts with the hands.

I know you don’t realize this;

Or even understand it.

But it’s the hands, Sir;

It starts with the hands.

A caress of the face while looking in my eyes;

A stroking, along the side of the cheek; gentle, yet insistent;

The tips of your fingers against my skin.

Offering and taking at once. Beckoning. Welcoming.

A caress. A stroke.

It’s the hands, Sir. The hands.

When you feel my arms, do you brush against them?

Grab them? Squeeze them?

Or do you trace the length of them, finding each curve;

Awakening each nerve? Exploring…discovering?.

It’s the hands, Sir. The hands.

My soft and yielding breasts.

How do you meet them?

.Do you touch them? Grab them?Paw them?

Or is there a wonderment in your touching? An amazement.

At how this arrangement of curved flesh can bring so much pleasure;

Hold so much promise?

Is there wonderment in your touch? Gratitude? Caring?

It’s in the hands, Sir. The hands.

Hundreds have reached for me.

Grabbed me. Fondled me. Taken me. Been with me.

But only a few have known me.

Made love to me. Maybe evenloved me.

And I knew those few….loved those few.

Could feel their love

Even as they kissed me; lay with me; entered me.

I knew by their hands, Sir. By their hands.

It is in the touch.

The hands, Sir. It is in thehands.

Erotic Lap Dance

Hoping all lovers of erotica had a most Happy Thanksgiving.

One of the short, short pieces I read at the salon in June of 2008. Contemporary work.

Lap Dance ‚2003 by Jill

The petite blonde pulled my knees apart, drivingher lithe, lean body between them and driving a wedge between my inhibitionsand my need.¬† Swaying to the music, she pressed into me, giggling,”Let’s give them a show.”

My tongue slid between her breasts, up herneck.  Dropping to her knees, pulling me forward, she forced her face upmy skirt.  My head went back, my hips arched upward.  Every man inthe club applauded, waving bills in the air, drowning out my screams.

Only we could taste the truth, the essence of myclimax evident in her final kiss.



Original Erotic Poetry by DeVo Nelson

Another poem read at the very first Salon in May of 2008.

DeVo Nelson


body language

DeVo Nelson (


it’s not my fault

it’s genetic

sure, Freud was mad

but is that not what a genius is made of?

when i think of you

when i see you

i see our perfect babies

(not the sexiest thing, i know…)


our DNA compatible

our gonads made for each other

the tug of war of our eyes

i know. i just know.


when i masturbate to you

we are reading


so many books

we’re sitting skyclad

reading. reading. reading.

taking turns

verbal intercourse


so many words

so many books

the inflection of our voices

enhance our affections

with spit-smeared hands

we stroke each other

first you, then me

then our arms cross

and we are tangled in one another

and the scent of stale pages

and worn spines


books. so many books.

so much poetry

swimming through body language

we kiss between stanzas

we’ve lost our page

(but always find our way back)

the way your hand fingers:

the paper, and me

it could surely make me implode


our glasses are foggy

and stained with fingerprints

and eyelashes

but we don’t need to see

the words lead the way

our brows hung low

enveloping ourselves in every sentence

thrilled by alliteration

and analogies and personification

also by snytax errors and typos

books. so many books.

Won’t you read a spell with me?









Erotic Poem and Verbal Intercourse Blogsite

Reprint of wonderful poem read at the first Salon.

DeVo Nelson

>DeVo has informed me he has a new blog, 



DeVo Nelson

it’s true what they say
it really isn’t the size that matters
second only to how you use it –
is girth

that thickness
that fullness
that broadness
that heaviness
that obtuseness

that auspicious attribute
that satiates the hunger for being full
that seductive monster

that wideness that pushes against the edges
the sides of the cheeks, labia, anal canal
creating that sweet unruly friction
just letting in enough air past and through to the sweetspot
popping bubbles of supreme ecstasy
making you gasp for just the right amount of breath
(it’s your only reason for living anyway)

“This one’s too long,” Goldilocks might say
or perhaps: “This one’s too short”
but you know when she heeds and says
“This one’s just right!”
it will be the fattest member 

a chunky slab of salty meat
that strong rooted trunk
lying in a bed of coarse, chlorine-smelling bush
a veiny shaft on which to sit
to feel yourself being ripped apart, gaping open
only to be put back together again

feeling empty
when he pulls out
leaving you with torn tissue
legs wide open
eyes spread
feeling that septor rule you for the rest of your day