Sleep tight.

Sleep under a blanket of love,

woven out of your hugs to me,


 mine to you.

Stitch it tightly

with kisses of peace,


the one who loves you now,


it will keep you warm,

and soften your heart

to the morning’s

bright light of day.


Physical Examination

When you’re not here,
I run my tongue
along the insides of my mouth,
searching for a taste of you,
feeling the skin so tenderly and gently,
inspecting each inch of my soft tissues
for a trace of you left behind,
a piece of a kiss missed by my floss,
or perhaps a disruption in my gum
from where you held me to your groin
as you humped my mouth,
fucking my tongue in that way
that drives me crazy for you.
Tell me, sweet angel,
do you ever scour your taste buds
for a drop of me?



I will blindfold you. 


I will run my tongue

lightly along your collarbone,

working my way

down your body,

teasing you

so lightly

that sometimes

you won’t be sure

if you feel my mouth or not,

so lightly that,

at times, 

you will hold your breath, 

searching your skin

for the feel of my tongue,

listening as hard as you can,

listening for the sound of my mouth…

straining to know where I am,

feeling on fire,

from the want of me,

driving yourself,

slightly insane with desire…

needing to know,

what I will kiss next.

Zoning Laws…

Let’s not idly ponder this, my love…or should we?
For we both know, no such thing will take place.
You have no intentions of leaving your comfort zone.
It is much too scary out here in the real world.
I am much too much for you, isn’t that a little bit true, my love?
I do think at times you consider it
but you think a little bit more and you un-consider it
…and it’s okay;
I’m not finding fault, trust me,
I just grow restless inside my own skin –
…wanting you crazily like I do.
I literally sit and shake my head
to clear away the cobwebs
that threaten my mornings
and cast shadows over my evenings.
And my dreams of a life with you
slip lazily in and out of my subconscious,
with memories of your sweet bed time kisses
fueling them, burning the insides of my eyelids,
the flames of my desire licking at my heart,
keeping the wounds alive.
I’m just attempting to change the zoning laws,
never quite grasping that it’s your vote I need.

Lie To Me.

Lie to me.

Tell me you hate the leather.

Tell me you hate the smell,

and the feel of it against your skin.

Tell me you hate pulling against the cuffs,

and the strain in the wooden headboard as you struggle.

Lie to me!

Tell me you don’t love my hair,

trailing between your legs,

teasing your thighs.

Tell me you’re not trying desperately

to see under the blindfold.

Tell me you’re not trying to imagine

just where my tongue will go next.

Lie to me!

Tell me you wish I would stop.

Tell me you don’t want me

to lick you there,

or there,

or there.

Tell me how my breath

on the back of your knees

doesn’t turn you on.

Tell you don’t want to feel my fingers

on your nipples,




and then,



a little bit


Lie to me!

Tell me you didn’t just catch

your breath in your throat.

Lie to me!

Tell me how my teeth

on your neck

doesn’t make you wetter.

Lie to me!

Tell me my kisses are too wet.

Tell me my touches are all wrong.

Tell me you don’t secretly enjoy

my tongue in your ears,

my tongue circling your clit,

my tongue licking across your ass.

Tell me you don’t want me more now

than you did two minutes ago!

Tell me you’re not thinking about me,

about making love to me.

Tell me you don’t want me,

in your mouth,

under your hands,

between your teeth.

Tell me you don’t want me to fuck you,


right now.

Lie to me!

Tell me you don’t want to cum in my mouth.

Tell me you don’t want me to lick your wetness,

the wetness I created!

Tell me that you don’t want me to pull

that wetness up,



up and over your clit,

again and again,

until you cum for me.

Tell me you don’t want me

to touch you just like that!

Lie to me

as you scream my name.

Snow Day

If I had a pair of giant scissors, I’d use them to cut a huge marshmallow square of clouds and sky from a summer sunny Florida day and then I’d roll it up, with the full enclosure of its breezy warmth and southern smells still intact, and seal it in a giant jar, and tuck it away carefully in the back of my closet.

If I had a giant rake, I’d use it to collect a fresh morning wave of pure sea foam while the tide is still rolling in, and then spread it out to dry in the hot summer Florida sunshine. And then I’d carefully spread an overflowing bucket of your kisses evenly over it to sweeten it, as only your kisses could. And then I’d cut it into tiny heart-shaped squares of chewy, spongy salt-water taffy, faintly reminiscent of your lips. And then I’d seal those beautiful kiss-drenched candies in a giant jar, and tuck them away carefully in the back of my closet.

If I had a giant net, I’d use it to capture a million and one fluttering, flickering fireflies. And then I’d sit with them awhile, and charm them with stories of you and your sweet perfection. And then I’d seal those eager carriers of light in a giant jar, and tuck them away carefully in the back of my closet.

And, when the soft snow started to quietly fall in dancing flurries, on those long, moonless, cold winter nights in North Carolina, I’d dig through the back of my closet and take out my wonderful summer collection of giant jars and carefully unseal them.


I’d take out the soft blanket of summer warmth and spread it on the cool ground beneath a giant weeping willow tree. I’d take out the jar of magical fireflies and set them out beside it at the base of the tree. And I’d take out the jar of salt-water kisses and hand feed you until I’d satisfied your sweet tooth. And then we could snuggle in and curl up, wrap ourselves in our giant comfy blanket of Florida warmth, and make slow passionate love by firefly light, keeping each other safe and warm until the early morning sunrise breaks over the ocean’s horizon.

The Tie.

She showed up in a tie. 
Small diamond shapes of blue.
Little flecks of gold, little flecks of red.
The gold matches her eyes.
She showed up in a tie for me.
White shirt.
Collar slightly askew.
Rakishly so.
Confidence sizzling and popping,
like electricity.
I felt her get out of the car.
I felt her walk toward me.
She scooped me into her arms,
with a gentle broad sweep,
that made my knees weak.
She showed up in a tie.
For me.
And, later, she showed me
what else ties are good for.
She showed up in a tie.
For us.

Diary of sitting at the bar…

       She was young, I’m going to guess 23.  She looked like she tasted like warm red wine infused with honey, simply intoxicating, and I watched her through narrowed eyes, feeling every inch of the predatory cougar that I have been called and, well, I suppose that I am.  I asked the young lady her name.  Lauren.  She was only 20 years old.  Why did she have to be so pretty and so young?  Her hair hung down her back in soft ringlets; it was several different colors and was oh so beautiful.  I longed to put my hands into it and breathe her in.  I had a bet with myself that her hair would smell of vanilla.

       The second drink had lowered my inhibitions and raised my level of testosterone or, at least, given me a wee bit more courage.  I felt twenty years younger.  My prey, er, waitress came back with another drink, the unasked-for answer to an unspoken prayer.  I sipped it slowly, feeling the warmth circling in my stomach, and the fuzziness swirling through my thoughts.

       Her earrings were Indian and garage-sale found, upon my inquiry.  She seemed pleased that I had noticed.  She told me her strawberry margarita was virgin; I had the good sense not to ask if she was.  I almost asked for a taste but was uncertain if my face would give away what I was really asking. 

      I watched her delivering food, always with a smile, her eyes often wandering up to meet my eyes.  I would smile broadly when caught looking, and she would blush; it was completely charming.

      I contented myself with small talk with one of the other waitresses, Lindsey, who was married.  Her husband was a huge college football fan and we had a lot in common.  She was very friendly and I enjoyed her easy smile and flirtatious ways.  She understood that I was simply flirting merely for the sake of the art.  Lauren,  however, had no clue.  I smiled and thought to myself that she would indeed be putty in my hands. 


       Chelsea, 25, and what a honey, was my waitress again today.  She usually scratches my lottery tickets for me, leaning across the bar in front of me, her curves directly in my line of sight, almost close enough to bury my nose in between her breasts.  Whether she’s aware or unaware, it doesn’t matter to me; I’m still looking and I’m still tipping her well.  Long, curly auburn hair, she has a dazzling smile and a beautiful body.  I could see myself waking up next to her, kissing the back of her neck as I spoon up against her. 

      One of the other waitresses looks just like Angelina Jolie, and was very pleased when I told her so.  Stephanie.  Maybe 22.  Of course, they all look 22 to me.  I think that young flesh tastes so sweet; it’s so smooth under your tongue, so soft under your fingertips, and so firm under your body.  You just have to appreciate the firmness and ripeness of a fresh Georgia peach.  I know I do. 

      I love that they are as curious about me, as I am about them…they linger near me, flirting, asking questions and, of course, I have lots of answers for them and lots of questions about them, making each of them feel special as, on repeat visits, I remember their names, and ask how their classes are going.  Everyone loves to have attention bestowed on them, and I am only too willing to give it, and receive it. 

      Sex for me is like part of an elaborate dance, one with intricate moves; oh, you’re right, it doesn’t have to be but merely gyrating isn’t nearly as satisfying a dance as when one has a certain technique, a skill, shall we say…this touch evokes that response, for instance, and I do love to try out a new technique and then reap the benefits of smiles, and oohs and aahs.  To listen to a beautiful young woman orgasm, with your name in her mouth, well, really now, is there a more beautiful sound imaginable?