Eager by Robert Beveridge
We threatened each other
with pleasure all day, racy
photographs, pornographic texts
that promised an entire night
of anything-goes passion. At dinner
we sat next to one another in the booth
my hand buried between your legs
a continuation of my fingers’ dance
between your clitoris and labia
on the way to the restaurant, a dance
reprised on the way home as we discussed
in exquisite detail where fingers, tongues,
cocks, and pussies would start,
end up, intersect between.
The front door a barrier no more
solid than our clothes, removed
between foyer and couch, you
doggy style, me on my knees behind
to harvest the fruits of my hard work.
How delicious you are, your secret oils
I would use as cologne, your taste
unique as any fingerprint, dark,
low, sweet with garlic, paprika,
pine and chocolate. A perfect
vintage, nineteen eighty-one.
The couch too short, or me
too tall, the bed calls our names
with soft insistence. Hours
of flirtation and foreplay ensure
your readiness. I slide in, hard
and immediate inside you, your smile
as instant and as brilliant
as the delicious serotonin haze
in my brain.
Orgasm seems an anticlimax.
After, cuddled close, once
our voices and vocabularies
returned, you asked me how
my birthday was. “Perfect, now.”
I kiss you, a ghost of chocolate
on my tongue.
©Robert Beveridge 2016
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Poetry Breakfast, and Third Wednesday, among others.