Vultures

Vultures

It’s something extra awful

When you can’t even figure out

Who’s lying to you anymore.

And you can’t even catch

A break to straighten out

Your own head.

They’ll use you up until

There’s nothing left to squeeze,

And then pick at the carcass

Until all that is left

Is your bones.

And then, then

They will find some use

For those too.

I once read that the poor class

Has consistently throughout history

Liked to drink and fuck

For recreation.  Squandering

Their pennies for cheap thrills

And keeping themselves down.

We drink to numb the pain

You have pushed on our bodies.

We drink because it is sometimes

The only way we can wake up

In the morning

And bring ourselves to serve you

Once more.

Smoke your cigars and poke and prod

And make fun of us all you’d like.

There’s no pride left to hurt anyway.

Nothing behind our eyes but sadness.

And for fucking?

Well, even us poor need to have fun once in a while…

I Wet the Bed, Like Federico de la Fe

I Wet the Bed, Like Federico de la Fe

Insomnia-riddled night

Torn and tattered soul

Like old negligee

No peace in my mind

No piece in my bed

Nothing in the moon

Or night sky

It’s during these sleepless spells

I feel most alone

Which for a recluse

May sound appealing

But it is also

During these dreamless nights

That I find myself faced

With the only instance

I am not ok

With being without

In fact I’m something of

A child clinging

To his blanket for

Sweet life

Terrified of shadows

Monsters under the carpet

And Michael Myers

Hiding in the closet

How I’d kill for

Long fingernails to write love notes

And draw pineapples

On my back

A cool hand to run

Over my body and

Quiet the fireworks

Bursting in my brain

How I hate myself

For knowing they’d

All be gone in the mourning

With these thoughts.

The Beautiful Flower

The Beautiful Flower

Stretched skin in blood red

And lush pink.

Gorgeous lips just

Torn apart

By burgeoning life.

Sacred home

And alter,

Eternal source of

Warmth.

The loving nurture

Beyond the capacity of a man.

The slick salty lick.

The long stroke

Of worship.

For a puzzling

Conundrum, yielding

Fruitful rewards.

Beauty is perception,

Lacking definition.

Lacking any finite understanding

Outside one’s own.

Though there’s no denying the

Beauty of this:

They say it’s your most

Precious gift;

I say, if anything

It is only proof of

God, and

Her kindness.

For Meena Alexander

For Meena Alexander

I want to own your mouth

And steal your tongue;

To control the words

That lick your wounds.

It’s my language,

It’s yours.

Yours.

We’ll try to possess

It, but we cannot.

I want your mouth on mine

And to dance and burn

In eternal sunshine.

You grasp for straws

All you’d please.

You’ll gasp for me.

Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday

The church is dead now.

Dead to me, anyway.

The final nail through my hand:

The stale palm cross in my

Passenger-side visor.

Though I still sing Hosanna

In the highest.

And I still praise and worship;

And I bow my head,

While on my knees.

Regardless, I’m helpless to lament:

Why hast though abandoned me?

Delila

Delila

Your body, baby

is sweet sex and all of its possibilities.

The resonating strum

at the forefront of my mind

throughout each and every day.

You echo behind

all of my thoughts

and are central

to all of my dreams.

That body,

that body, baby, and your neck.

Your neck, sweet darling,

I long to caress that neck;

to demonstrate this vast range of

emotions only you can make me

show.

You bring it out, love, you

make me

true.

My weapon, my muse—

            for this war!

And all I feel

is eternal indebtedness and gratitude.

These fingers are not for foreplay.

They’re for the whole damn show.

And they will make you moan,

Baby.

They will make you moan.

Prynne

Prynne,

I always tease you

When you think that

Every poem is about you.

Now I fear you may feel

As though none of them

Are.

You will always be my

Greatest muse;

You were my rebirth,

My awakening.

You wrote me like Chopin herself.

I am forever

Indebted and grateful

A billion times over.

Yours

The Politics of Peace

The Politics of Peace

I.

You want me to write a politically active poem,

Don’t you?

They’re clamoring for it,

Joe.

I can’t concern myself with politics,

I’m sorry.

I can’t control or change a goddamn thing.

Words were never strong enough.

No one’s.  Ever.  Period.

They killed every man

Who ever told us how

We could live it right—

To respect and care and protect

Each other.

Even after all this time, having come all this way,

We still cannot recognize it.

We could feel and permeate only warm energy;

But we can’t handle it?  We can’t bear the thought?

The Testaments of Love are tarnished

And we kill in holy names.

Forget the thought of peace then—

There’s no need for another dead preacher.

II.

I often wonder about

The man at the control station

Dropping bombs on children

Thousands of miles away.

Collateral damage,

I’m sure his supervisors say.

He was just following orders,

So here’s a comforting pat on the back:

I know of another group of

Misinformed soldiers

Still unforgiven

For theirs.

And right now, at this very moment,

In Africa or the Middle East

A woman is having her

Clitoris ripped from her body.

Tiny fingers stitch your sneakers

And piece together components of this iPhone.

The ocean is filled with plastic soup

Evaporating into our air

And killing our sea life—

Our solution to pollution was dilution,

So what is our solution now?

But never feel guilty for your privilege,

Even as we get fat and others starve.

Understand that your own perceived reality

Reigns supreme over our collective one;

So be grateful that this is yours and not another’s.

Thank God for good fortune

And ponder how he could possibly

Exist in the midst of all of this.

III.

Now to touch upon God

Once more.

How could I question his

Presence here, but claim

Her existence in another?

The same way I can tell you

I will not write a political poem,

But then do so immediately after,

In part two:

Because I want to

And nothing about me makes sense.

You call yourself God sometimes

Don’t you?

Yes, and even before I realized the

Power of authorship.

But shouldn’t you love your God?

Shouldn’t you love your country?

You should love yourself first.

You should love your neighbor.

That is how you love your God.

Discourse (for Dissinger)

Discourse

And so you asked:

What if your country attacks you?

Then attack your country.

Attack whomever.

Attack whatever.

Attack the Institution.

Attack the Man.

Fight City Hall

And kick the Mayor right in the nuts.

Attack Art.

Attack the fucking Cosmos.

Attack the Stars

Like the Paparazzi.

Attack the Poor.

Attack the Coloreds.

Attack us—the Hegemony.

Attack something

For Christ’s sake.

Just be ready to

Reap the repercussions.

W.H.

W.H.

She said the world would have suffered

The loss of some of the greatest poetry ever written,

If she had simply given into his desire.

Auden knew, as I do to

The words will change the world at large

Far less than her presence would to his own perception.

We’d trade them all, my friend and I—just for her attention.

Who's to Blame?

Who’s to Blame?

I can’t stop writing.

It’s all your fault.

The pen explodes.

Ink splatters

The blue-lined page.

It’s all your fault.

This beautiful mess,

Brought forth from

You, you beautiful mess.

It’s all your fault.

Yours…

And a little bit

Mine.

The Wantagh Parkway Soliloquy

I take the shortcut

Off the Wantagh Parkway

To avoid the Pencil.

As I drive among the dead bodies,

I think:

My, what a perfect shade of teal

The sky is

Today.

The Wizard

The Wizard

You’ve got me not myself.

I’m scratching paper:

My pen is the hind leg

Of a dog with an awful

Itch.

I’m not the kind to pant

Or beg;

I’m no Toto.

And in a way I’m not.

I still fuck anyone I want,

Which may be anyone.

As long as she has half

The Tin Man’s

Heart

And half the Scarecrow’s

Brain.

Where’s your fucking

Courage

Lioness?

And how’s that for a lily image?

Your familiar misogynist

Is Dorothy, dying for companionship

On this long

Road.

fuck

Artwork by Timothy Johnson

fuck

            You get me closer to God       

                                    Nine Inch Nails

You had me so fucked up leaving your apartment that night, I went the wrong way.  Yep.  Five blocks of Brooklyn brownstones later and I was still just saying “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Everything about you is cool.  Do you know that?  Seriously though, seriously.  God.  I love your dog, I love your place, I love the view of my home—the greatest city in the world.  I love your hair and that mouthy smile/head tilt that’s had me saying “damn” to myself for the last year and a half…and that body…that body, baby, god damn.  I could eat you whole, woman.

And I am only avoiding a nauseating list of all the fucking reasons I actually like you, (the you you), in an effort to avoid sounding corny; but it’s who you are that’s driving me wild, keeping me all fucked up in the head.  It’s your mannerisms, your posture, your lexicon, your multilingual tongue, the fact that you play piano and most importantly can sing, your general disposition and overall outlook on life.  That gorgeous fucking face and your magnetic eyes.  These are the things that have me constantly consciously killing the urge to grab my phone and text you, call you, annoy you.

And you knew what you were doing when you kicked me out, you knew.  Flittering around all nonchalant about loving sex and being a serial dater with no inkling to settle down; only to shove me out your door and protest that you “aren’t that kind of girl.”  You knew.  You knew I would be floating down those Park Slope streets, sliding sweetly on the slick December freeze.  Sliding and saying fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck!  Seriously, woman.

You haven’t the slightest idea as to what could have, should have happened in that room.  And don’t deny the fact that if I wanted to fuck you, I would have.  All I needed to do was make a strong move, and darling, I’m the fucking king of strong moves.  Had I grabbed your pussy—you like that word, right?  You said so yourself.  Had I grabbed your pussy and pushed you onto your bed, your legs would have parted and I would have had those tight black jeans on the floor and my tongue and fingers would have been inside you so fast you wouldn’t be able to do anything but moan and dig your nails into the back of my head.  You would have become so overwhelmed by the ecstasy, the rapture I would have moved in you, that you would have wanted nothing but more, nothing but to continue.

But you were smart enough to know, I suppose, the chances of experiencing more would have greatly diminished had it went down that way.  And I do like you too.  That’s why I didn’t make that typical me, strong move.  I still insist I was right when I told you if I had been trying to seduce you, we would have made the bed already.  But I have nothing but respect for you.  Which, honestly, is rare.

One day soon though.  Soon woman.  The next time I “pin you down,” I am only going to begin to make you regret dismissing me so quickly.  And I aim to make you regret it over and over for quite some time.

***

Or so I thought, until you lost interest or got in your own way, in your own head, or whatever.  And it stung; I won’t lie, I still think about you from time to time.  Why you stopped answering my texts, why you stopped giving a shit about my writing, about me.  I don’t know.  I know I never should have been there in the first place, but that’s me—always somewhere I shouldn’t be.  It must be the “I don’t give a fuck” attitude.

Whatever, it was your loss; honestly honey, I could make you feel things you didn’t know could be felt.  And I can hear you now in your feminist tone tuning up to argue—“Just another self-absorbed man who thinks he’s God.”  Well, love to break it to you baby, and you know my penchant for honesty: there’s a reason why I write this way; why I talk this way.  And I know the things I could do to you.

But whatever.  Honestly.  God.

I was dating pretty heavy around our first date, so moving on wasn’t that hard.  My problem is that women bore me.  People in general, but especially women.  You did not.  That’s why I’m still scratching my head and this legal pad.  I went on a few more lack-luster dates, which usually ended in sex—some of it incredible, some of it average…I find it’s almost impossible to have “bad sex.”  And every time, I couldn’t shake you.  Fuck.  She’d be on top of me, and I’d have my hands around their hips, and my eyes would be shut tight thinking about yours.  Wishing I was inside of you.  Picturing your voluptuous frame spread out over my body and your thick curls covering my face.  Goddamn, the thought alone leaves me breathless.  But whatever.

***

I started seeing this chick Lisa for a bit.  She was alright—tiny little gymnast from out on the Island.  She had the skinniest frame, but the biggest ass; I mean a fucking donkey.  I’m still trying to figure out how she stands without tipping over, let alone does back-flips on balancing beams.  And she was a sweetheart, and she was really into me, and she had even read the book, offered some decent insight.  But jesus-fuck-me did I not give a damn about almost anything she ever said.

The sex was pretty marvelous, as it always is with a spinner.  She was obviously tight and flexible; but it’s more about the ability to engage in acrobatics: throw her legs over my arms, and let her hold onto my neck as I’d pound her standing up.  Suspended-fucking is always hot.  You’re no gymnast, love, but we already know I could pick you up and spin you nonetheless.

It was Friday afternoon and it was raining like a bastard.  Lisa was over and I was smoking my brains out to an old Bruce Lee flick.  She was reading a magazine on my love seat and we caught eyes and smiled.  I felt fake.

Why don’t we go out tonight?

Out?  Why?  It’s miserable out there.  Let’s just hang in.

Great, Nick. That’s what we always do, whether it’s raining or not.

What’s the problem?

We always just watch old movies at your place or mine, fuck and smoke.  This is not how I like to be treated.

What do you mean?  How am I mistreating you?

You’re not mistreating me, but I’m a girl goddamnit.  I like to get pretty and go out.  Be seen.  Dance.  We never do anything fun.  We get fucked up and you fuck me.

Woah, Jesus, lady, I wasn’t aware I was the only one doing the fucking around here.  Excuse my lack of sensitivity.

Shut up, Nick.

No.  No, I’m serious.  Am I not making you cum, love?

It’s not all about sex, Nick.  It can only take you so far.

With you?

With anyone.  I need more.

I could see she wasn’t bullshitting.  I did used to take her out a lot when we first started hooking up.  She wasn’t my girlfriend, but she was pretty much the only one I tolerated enough to keep regular.  I didn’t want to make her upset, and she was right, she deserved a night out.

I’m sorry, Li, you’re right.  Amy’s reading in Brooklyn tonight, would you like to go?

Yeah, Nick.  Poetry reading sounds like something I’d love to do…

Fucking women.  Ok, doll, how ‘bout dinner at Peter Luger’s?  Sound better?

Peter Luger’s?  Really?

Yeah, babe, sure.

But I don’t have anything to wear.

We’ll stop off at Express and get you an outfit.  Who knows, maybe it’ll stop raining and we can bounce around Williamsburg after.  At least she couldn’t say I didn’t know how to treat a lady.  Sometimes we just need to be reminded.

Oh my god, Nick, thank you baby!

She practically dove into my lap face-first, from the love seat.  She had it out and down the back of her throat before I could put my bowl down.  It’s a sad state of affairs, but I almost never cum from blowjobs anymore.  Don’t get me wrong, I love them, my God do I love them, but they just can’t get me there anymore.  Her technique was pretty solid—she had a firm hand wrapped around, and massaging my balls, and no gag-reflex whatsoever.  It wasn’t the first time she’d gone down on me, but it had always just been for a few minutes before sex.  She was trying to reach the finish line this time; she was trying to do something nice for me.  She was a sweet kid on a mission doomed for sure-failure.  She tried for a solid twenty minutes, before getting annoyed.  (They always get annoyed).

Are you gonna cum?

I don’t think so, babe.

Something I could be doing differently?

No, you’re doing a fine job.

What is it then?

It’s nothing.  It’s not your fault.  They just don’t work anymore.

What do you mean they don’t work?

Very few women can make me cum with a blowjob.

So some can?

I could feel myself wince…what an idiot.  Look, Lisa, I’m sorry babe.  It’s just not going to happen.  I slid my hand down her back and into her leggings.  She pulled it out immediately.

Just forget it.  I want to grab a drink, and we should really get going.

She got up and walked into my kitchen.  Goddamn it.  I went to the bathroom and jerked-off.  Funny, I could always make myself cum within two minutes.  Maybe I am the narcissist Anna’s always saying I am.  My sister…I love her…I miss her…maybe I should call her later…

***

She picked out a slinky black dress, and I must admit it, she looked fucking sexy.  She had on some big black heels which made her head come up to about my shoulder.  If you had these things on, we’d be eye-to-eye.  But her gymnast legs looked stunning and defined in her stilettos, and I could certainly now understand why they say every girl needs to have a little black dress in her closet.

When we got to Brooklyn it was around eight o’clock.  The rain was not pounding the pavement nearly as hard as it had been an hour before.  I pulled in front of Peter Luger’s and told her to go inside.

Why don’t you just valet?

Why, so the valet guy can steal my pot?

You’re such a child.

Jesus.

Jesus—that’s all you ever say.

She left the car.  I don’t know why everything needs to be so fucking difficult.  Why does it matter to her if I valet or park the car myself?  I was trying to be a gentleman and let her out right in front so she wouldn’t have to walk in the rain, and yet even this is a problem.  I could feel the pulsating under my skin, could feel the red rising in my brain.  I just will never understand why women need to make a problem out of everything.

I parked the car a few blocks away in front of a bar that had a mural on its side dedicated to quitting smoking.  It was like a gigantic truth campaign.  I love street art, and the mural was beautifully done.  I lit a cigarette and opened my umbrella.  I walked the seven blocks considering the phrase “smoking kills,” as I blackened my lungs and brightened my psyche.

Peter Luger’s is an interesting place.  The food is certainly exquisite, and it better be—you can’t leave that fucking place without dropping a few hundred at least.  But it’s the process by which they make the food so exquisite that makes it interesting.  Even more so when one considers how few people know the secret.  The dining room is elegant, and has an air of old money.  The place exudes sophistication, and obviously because of the exorbitant price tag, the clientele carries the same air.  But beneath that imposing room, well below the ancient-looking chandeliers, lies the truth.  If you ever walked into the basement of Peter Luger’s you would throw-up from the smell alone.  The ceiling is lined with cow carcasses, rotting.  What?  How did you think they make that Steak for 2 melt in your mouth like butter?  The end result is magnificent, but the process is putrid.  And I assure you the stench of that basement is unrivaled.  I play with that image in my mind—the fancy diners and daters upstairs, the rotting cow carcasses hooked to the ceiling downstairs—just delicious, no?  This revolting yingyang.  High class society chowing down on the rot from below.  Just delicious.

I reached the front door at the same time you did.  I flicked my cigarette and opened it for you.

Nick?

M?

Maia!  Wait for me!

I looked to the street and caught this tool stumble out of his Mercedes.  He was valeting.  I wondered if you made him do it…nope, this guy was definitely a valet kinda guy.

Nick, how are you?

We moved into the restaurant and closed the door.

I’m fine, nice to see you’re still alive and well, love.

Why wouldn’t I be?

I don’t know.  I mean, I know how busy of a woman you are and all, but when was the last time I heard from you?  A month ago?  Two?

Huh, yeah, sorry about that…work you know.

Maia, so not cool to leave me out in the rain like that.  Who’s this?

Maia gestured towards me and said: This is Nick.  He’s an old, old friend of mine.

Old, huh?  Like what, high school?

Yeah, Ari.  Me and Nick go way back to high school.  Nick, this is Ari.

I shook Ari’s hand—weak grip.  I felt the red again; you were with this chump?  You preferred his company to mine?

Well, M, Ari, nice to see you.  I need to go tend to my date.  She’s already pissed off.

Wait, Nick, you’re here with someone?

You don’t go to Peter Luger’s alone, M.

Perfect, let’s all get a table together!

What?  Ari and I said it at the same time.

It’ll be fun, Ari.  Let’s do it.  I haven’t seen Nick in a really long time, and I miss him.  He’s a good guy.

She grabbed my hand and smiled at Ari.

Uh, ok, babe.  Ok, yes, how ‘bout it Nick?  Let’s say we make this a double date.

I don’t know guys, like I said Lisa’s pissed already, I don’t know if this is the best time for that.

Ok, we under—

No, don’t be silly, Nick.  It’s been too long.  I’d love to sit down with you tonight.

Your eyes were sparkling.  I knew those eyes.

Yeah, sure guys.  Let me grab my date and we’ll get a table.

Lisa was already on her second Merlot, which worried me—she was a two beer queer if there ever was one.  She was texting furiously, and when I put my hand on her shoulder she shot me the death glare.

Twenty minutes?  I was in here alone for twenty minutes?

I’m sorry, Lisa.  I had to park like seven blocks away and then I ran into an old friend outside.

You should have just valeted.

I know, you’re right, I’m sorry.  Hey, listen, we’re gonna move to a table for four so we can eat with my friend and her date.

Are you fucking kidding me?  This is our nice night out together?  You shouldn’t want to spend it with your friend!  You should be all about me right now.  And wait, your friend’s a girl?  I know the type of girl “friends” you have, Nick.  When’s the last time you fucked this one?

Never fucked her, I swear.  Hey, I wasn’t even lying.  Come on, lady.  I wanna go show you off in that black dress.  You look so fucking sexy tonight.

She smiled briefly, then narrowed her eyes again.

You listen to me, Mr. Virgin.  I am not very happy with you right now, or with how this whole night has gone at all.  But I will put on a face and be charming for you with that bitch and her date.  But after we get out of here, I want you to do something just for me.  Understand?

M’s not a bitch—

Fuck, Nick, just appease me for once.  You’re such an asshole, God.

Fucking women…Yeah, babe, no problem.  To be honest, I wanted to just bounce and leave all three of them there.

We sat down somewhat awkwardly, but we did it on purpose; we did it without even realizing ourselves.  The couples sat next to each other, but you and I were across from one another, making unwavering eye contact.  Conversation started off slow and dull, but I wasn’t paying attention to it at all.  Ari was babbling on about securities or insecurities or some shit, and I was feeling for the first time in my life like Mina and not Dracula—you had me in a trance, love, stuck in your eyes.  I was the charmed snake and you knew.  It was the first time I could remember feeling like the prey instead of the predator.  You could consume me and you knew.  You know.

Ari said something to you, and he grabbed your leg.  We finally broke eye contact and everyone else came back into focus.  I slammed my Seven and Seven in two gulps and motioned the waiter for another.  Drinking—that’s how I was going to combat your hypnosis.  After my third drink everything was loose and we were all starting to laugh.

So where did you and Lisa meet?

Christian Mingle.

You spat your wine back into the glass.

Uh, I’m Jewish, thanks.

Yeah, Li…I think we’re all Jews.  Unless Ari over there is a Baptist in hiding.

I thought you were Roman Catholic.

By designation, maybe.  Certainly not by practice or faith.  And when I said “we” I meant the collective room; we are in Williamsburg after all.

Lisa looked annoyed.  You looked amused.  Who gives a fuck how Ari looked.

So, Nick, what is it that you do exactly?

Well, Ari, I smoke a ton of pot and people pay me to tell them things they should be able to figure out themselves.  It’s a glorious life.

Nick’s an author, Ari.

Thanks M, that’s a swell way to put it.  I’m an author, Ari.

What kind of books?

Fiction.  My second novel is forthcoming.  I’ve worked on a few TV shows, edited a few things, published a few articles, a few short stories.  Nothing crazy.

You make money that way?

Money’s nothing, man.

Like hell!  It’s everything.

Ha!  Everything?  I feel awful for you.

Why are you being such a jerk, Nick.  Ari’s right, you should probably care about your financial security more.  I almost forgot Lisa was even there.  Goddamn I couldn’t take my eyes off of you for a second.

So if you’re “not about money,” Nick, what are you about?

The rapture, baby.  I wrapped my foot around your ankle and ran it up the back of your leg.  Your eyes went wide.  The rapture, my dear boy.

I could tell that Lisa wanted to kill me and Ari was starting to get uneasy, uncomfortable.  Not many people get me, and it was clear these two to my right thought that I was from Mars.  But you stayed with me the whole time, and this is when it dawned on me what you were doing.

I’m going to head to the ladies room, I’ll be right back.  You slid your hand between my knees as you excused yourself from the table.  I counted to thirty seconds in my head.

Jeeze, guys, you know what, these damn Seven and Sevens ran right through me.  I’m going to need to excuse myself as well.

When I turned the corner to head towards the restroom, you grabbed me around the neck and pulled my face to your lips.  I’d say I forgot how delicious you are, but I’m no liar.  I pulled your body off of the wall and pressed you into me.  You stopped kissing and looked me in the eye.

Did you drive?

Yeah, love.

Valet?

Fuck no.

Thank God.  You kissed me again.  You wanna make a run for it?

We ran right past our table and both of our dates, diving headfirst into the rain.  We held hands the entire seven blocks and when we found the car, I grabbed your waist and kissed you hard on the mouth.  We were soaked through, but nothing could bother us.  I pushed you against the car and let you feel me against you.

Get me home right now.

We jumped in the car and continued to make-out and grab at each other.  Our hands were so hard and wild, running over the others’ body; it was animalistic, primal, carnal.

Get me home, now, Nick.  You breathed out again.

I put the car into drive and started navigating Brooklyn.  I thought back to that first night when you asked if I was circumcised.

Fuck no.  Does that bother you?

No, a lot of the foreign guys I’ve dated were that way.  But most Americans are…Jewish or not.

Well I have a beautiful, uncircumcised penis.  My father told Doctor Cohen we’re keeping him Italian.

You laughed.

I thought again about my lack of strong move the first time.  I’d say this time you gave me a fair opening.  I grabbed you between your legs and shoved my middle finger into you, over your pants.  You made a face and jerked your head forward.  I unbuttoned them and had you unzipped within half a block.  I shoved my hand down the front of your thong and parted your lips with my ring and pointer; utilizing my middle finger to play with your clit and spread the slick sweetness.  I massaged you, before sliding my middle finger in first.  You grabbed my hand and pushed me further inside of you.  You moaned, but weren’t obnoxiously loud.  And I had the most raging hard-on; I couldn’t wait to show you my beautiful, uncircumcised penis.  You laid across my body and started kissing me at a red light.  I fingered you harder and reveled in your nails digging into my shoulders.  Made me hopeful I would wake up with red raw claw marks drawn down my back.

We pulled up to your apartment and there must be a God, because there was a spot right in front.  We ran in and up those four flights of stairs faster than I ever could have imagined possible; yet the road ahead still felt infinite: the anticipation, anxiety, curiosity and wonder rising with us, with each step.  You fumbled with your keys and I kissed you again.  You shoved your hand into my chest, pushing me off of you.

The door was finally open and we practically fell inside and on top of each other.  We were kissing savagely.  You turned to head towards your room, and I grabbed your waist and swung you around.  I yanked down your pants and grabbed your pussy again.  You fumbled with my belt, as I pulled my jacket off.  I picked you up and slammed you into the wall.  You didn’t miss a beat.  I thought again of that first night—it was picking you up that made you push me out your door.  Tonight you seemed to enjoy it just fine.  I grabbed my cock and put it inside of you.  Your long legs were wrapped tight around my back, and I had my right hand grabbing you under the chin and around your neck, forcing you to keep kissing me, while you struggled to pull back and gasp.  I put you down and turned you around.  I guess you knew this position, because you dropped your head between your legs and arched your back against the wall proper.  I pushed into you hard, slow and long, and with every thrust, you:

            oh!  Oh!!  OH!!!  OHH!!!!ed

When I finished, I pulled you up and turned you around.  I pushed you into the wall, and fell into you a little, kissing you—still hard, but with a certain tenderness.  We walked slowly to your bedroom shooting each other glances and smiles.  You leaned into my left side and grabbed my hand, bringing it up to your mouth and kissing it.  We found your bed and finally laid down.  I grabbed you and pulled you close, kissing you.  Soft at first, softer than I ever had.  As our making-out became more intense, I pulled you closer and slid my hand down your side, pushing your left leg away from the right.  I started playing with you again.

More?  You asked.

I just kept kissing you, fingering you, watching you react.  Arch your back and head.  I started nibbling.  First little bites on your chin and cheek, moving to ear to neck, down your entire side.  I came to your stomach and continued down until my head was between your legs.  I put each hand over each leg and opened you up.  Lightly at first, licking your lips and flicking your clit with my tongue.  I licked the length of your vagina and stuck my tongue inside of you, swirling it around.  You dug your fingers into the back of my head and moaned some more.  I latched onto your clit and started making circles with my tongue.  This is the thing most guys miss when it comes to cunnilingus—they try to get fancy, when the truth is that it takes consistency to make a woman orgasm.  Sure, I am all about variety, and the same thing gets stale—that’s why it’s always good to have a plethora of weapons in your arsenal, but one at a time, guys.

I started kissing back up to your lips and I slid back inside of you.  I pumped long and slow, and we were kissing again.  We rolled over onto our sides, starting to move in quicker rhythm; all the while staying in perfect sync.  You pushed my shoulder and rolled on top of me.  You sat straight up and proud, owning your body, loving my eyes on it.  You moved your hips something incredible, and I had my left hand firmly on your ass, and my right hand over your cunt, helping you to keep time.  You had that wonderful ability so few women possess to control your pussy and keep it working, pulsating around my cock.  It takes a lot for me to cum, but you had no problem.

We collapsed breathless and haphazardly draped over each other.  We kissed once and you said:

What am I going to do with you?

I never answered.

I’d like to say that I thought about Lisa and Ari and felt at least a little bit bad about what we had done.  I didn't though.  Honestly, the only thing on my mind right then was: I wonder what you’re doing tomorrow…

Fuck.