29 April 2007


I am listening to you speak, paying close attention to how your mouth forms words.
Your tongue wets your lips, in the middle of your story.
I think about leaning in closer, shutting you up.
I have heard your stories and I wish to experience one for myself.
Tell me a story, beautiful, with scratches all over my frozen skin
and with your tongue in my curious mouth instead.

I want to tell you a story now:

I want your skin.
I want your long body and that cigarette that dangles
from your pale hand that touched many others.
I want your old tattoos next to my young skin.
I want your painted eyes that you keep hidden.
I want you to teach me a thing or two,
while putting me in my so-called place.
I want my hands in your dark hair, tangled.
I want your cock in my mouth while your eyes watch my lips.
I want your body pressed against mine.
I want to feel tiny and delicate.
I want to feel strong and powerful,
as I grind my hips to take you in.
I want you to throw me down in playful haste.
I want your terrifying words against my nakedness.
I want to fuck you.
I want to be fucked by you.
I want your skin.
I fucking want your skin
all over mine.

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19 April 2007


I wonder how your fifty year old body
would feel against mine,
twenty years younger.
Would I taste refreshing
against your tongue
that has tasted so many others?
Would you call me little girl
and punish me for being naughty?

I certainly hope so.

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Questions for an Older Man

He's a million miles away but he's poisoned my mind with scattered ideas of sticky bedsheets and entwined legs.

How would I fuck him?

How does a fifty year old man fuck someone who is twenty years younger?

With shame or with a smile on his face?

If he is as beautiful as his songs, he would slowly undress me. He would pay close attention to zippers and buttons. He would taste my skin, softly bite at my hip. A hand would carress my long legs, another would carress my breasts. The room would be quiet, beautiful. Soft moans would echo and our bodies would be, as they say, as one.

If he is selfish, he would simply lie back and enjoy the ride. I would worship him and his status, taking his hard cock in my luscious mouth or riding him carelessly, my hips grinding against his. My tits bouncing up and down as his fifty year old cock is entering and exiting my youthful wet cunt. He would have a smile on his face, taking pride in the fact that a young woman is naked and on top of him - doing all the work in his retirement plan. I would wear a smile too...knowing that I am pleasing someone that I admire, respect, and is famous.

If he is dirty, he would treat me like a little girl because he is old enough to be my father. He would treat me like any other young groupie slut, pulling my hair and slapping my ass as he mutters the fact that I am only a dirty whore, in his gravelly voice, such a bad, such a naughty girl I am. He would take me from behind and fuck me fuck me fuck me without a thought to my pleasure, only thinking of himself and my hard nipples in between his fifty year old fingers.

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08 April 2007

(I wasn't supposed to love you)

I remember when we spoke of love
and favorite songs,
our sly smiles and soft hands
that dared not touch
over cold, half-empty coffee cups.
We sat beside a lonely window,
steamed by our lusty confessions,
our salty words.
The snowflakes swirled under the streetlamp,
we watched closely
when it became too intense
to look into eyes.
As my eyes found yours again,
those tragic brown eyes
lunged through me.
My painted lips quivered,
my favorite song is Famous Blue Raincoat,
my favorite song is Famous Blue Raincoat.

I remember revealing so much
though coffee shop tables
and prior engagements
always stood between us.
We'd laugh bitterly at the title
we shared,
victims of bad timing.
Your eyes widened when I told you
my favorite song.
You gently shook your head
and mumbled,
me too, my love, me too.
A smile danced on your solemn face
for a moment or two.
Looks like we have another thing in common,
I whispered playfully.
And at that very moment, I knew
you saw me as amazing.

I remember the winter of our connection,
dreamy and temptuous,
forbidden and unforgotten.
We used to share so much in common, my love,
we used to share so much.

Now, I try so hard to remember
as you try so hard to forget.

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04 April 2007

Old Dreams

I had a dream, a long time ago.

I was standing in a line of half naked women. I looked down at myself and I, too, was half naked. We stood perfectly, in front of sitting men in dark suits who wore expressions of lust and desire on their sweaty faces. One by one, each woman danced for the men. It was a competition of the sexiest dance. It was difficult not to watch the women dancing, bodies grinding to private music they could only hear. I tried my best to remain focused, not be distracted by the tasty and temptuous flesh of my own kind.

When it came time for my turn to dance, I became lost as I am for words. My arms swirled and teased. My hips slowly twisted and ached for each person in the room. My legs taunted the curious eyes, displaying strength and agility and a brief glimpse of my cunt. My hungry hands touched my own skin, tracing lines around my nipples and the natural curve of my hips. I fell to my knees.

The men remained silent, stunned. I crawled towards them with a devilish, fuck-me look in my eyes. Each one of them wanted me. Each one of them could have me. I thrusted my hips towards the floor. It was only then I realized, I was not performing for the watching men.

I was dancing for the women, who was much more turned on by my moves than the men. The women were hypnotised. They began to rub their clits and deeply kiss one another, hands running over hard nipples and arched backs. I crawled up to a lone woman, who sat on a chair with her luscious legs spread open. My fingernails scratched down her long legs. I took her foot and began to suck on her toes, as I grinded my body towards the floor.

I had everyone under my control.

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03 April 2007


Once upon a time, we drank pints of ale at a pub. You asked me questions and I answered truthfully. You never realised how obedient I was to your words. Those words, how delicious they tasted upon my salty tongue. We were the only people in the room, empty and dark. Your face was a delight to watch, your mouth forming perfect sentences. I smiled seductively and that made you nervous. I laughed knowingly. My bright red lipstick left a stain on the rim of my glass. You watched me. I knew you would write about me when you came home to your lonely apartment.

I never kissed your mouth. I wonder who you are kissing now. I wonder what words you confess to her.

I remember touching your arm as we shared our stories of love lost. You withdrew from me, protected yourself as though I spilled hot wax on your smooth flesh. You looked wounded, hurt. You could never capture my body against yours and that moment you sadly understood...

this is the closest I will ever get to you.

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02 April 2007


You were there, standing solemnly and wearing that burgandy suit jacket that you always wore. Your eyes looked towards the ground and you smoked a silent cigarette. As I walked towards you, your heavy brown eyes lifted. You stared at me, like a knife lunging deep into my soul. I waited for that smirk to curl the corners of your mysterious mouth. You just stared at me, smoke swirling around you.

There was always a wall of tension between us. It was always only a matter of moments before something exploded, be it sexually or emotionally. I often wondered how we avoided that explosion though, I must admit, I was curious to wonder what would come first - you or the end of our seemingly odd companionship.

When you spoke of random curiosities, random meetings, and this and that, I would watch your long white fingers playing with your car keys or your cigarette. Those fingers would stroke the table, fingernail running across the jaggedness of the table which was carved with the initial's of old lovers. I would move closer to you, claimed I could not hear you well over the music. Truth be told, I leaned in closer to imagine your hand exploring underneath my skirt. Your fingers inside my mouth. Your fingers inside of me, stroking me like you stroked that damned table.

I imagined you as a gentle lover. One who would kiss my arms as though we lived in an old painting, full of romance and sweetness. You would strip me of my clothes, only to taste a particular spot on my hip. You would let down my hair, only to bury your face in it. You would call me beautiful. Call me your wonderful lover. You would light candles and we would be dizzy from wine, we would quietly crawl on top of each other and kiss each other deeply.

Little did I know when I went over to your place for a nightcap, you'd be slapping my face and calling me your dirty little whore. What a pleasant surprise.

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