so good
when I exclaim, “that’s so good”,
trying not to blush under her intent gaze,
and she asks
“so good?”
her voice like crushed glass
for a moment it’s
kaleidoscopes in my vision
the blunt pressure of those
hands of hers, swiss army knife hands,
on my body, in my body,
me gasping, “that’s so good”,
her teeth and her sweat
her heavy-lidded gaze on me
her burnished voice in my ears
rasping, “so good?”
as I shudder
and pant.
just for a moment.
then I’m back at the bar,
the drink she made me
staining my mouth.
she’s watching me with those sharp agate eyes of hers
and I wonder
if she saw my thoughts play out over my face
if she hears the way
that they color my voice
when I answer,
“so good.”
put a ring on it
the problem
with being a woman who reads
too much porn
in which men fuck other men
(so, so much porn
in which men fuck other men
in every possible permutation
and also in many which are
not possible,
to say the least)
is that you can develop
fixations
(to say the least)
that you don’t have the genitals for
and then you can find yourself
in the middle of getting fucked
staring forlornly at your
slippery clit
wishing it was a cock
so that someone could
put a ring on it.
dirty old men
those dirty old men
leering at schoolgirls they’ll never touch
smug in their certainty that their
simple, greedy, impotent eyes
drinking up any glimpse of
thighs and panties
somehow represents the pinnacle
of erotic depravity
so unaware of the depths of their own
banality
they have no notion of the quiet women
with wan faces, clean clothes, polite smiles
with gunpowder lingering in their throats
just out of sight
with technicolor behind their eyes
the ones everyone overlooks
assumed to be unassuming
assumed to be saccharine simpletons, sexually
those women
who have wrung convulsions from their own flesh
at the mere thought of depravities
as intricate and astonishing
as a rube goldberg machine
operatic, brutal, sinister depravities
that make one wonder
whether, in fact, he who made the lamb made these
depravities that those dirty old men
couldn’t even begin
to imagine.
Biography
Alicia Murray resides in the Pacific Northwest. She writes and reads prose as well as poetry, and enjoys exploring the many facets of eroticism through the written word.