Sexual Elegy

O how I miss sex!
After a half-century of tits and kisses and cunts,
blow jobs and fucks both breathless and routine
from women both beautiful and plain
I long for the sleepy press against a soft back
my spent cock nestled against her ass.
I can remember every pleasure
from every woman I was ever with,
now only withdrawals from my personal spank bank.
Jerking off, an orgy of one, is a poor proxy
for being smothered nose deep in labia swollen in heat,
tonguing her clit while she sucks me off:
69 is a number I can’t count on again.
Fucking was a joyous race to a finish line,
the prize for a pounding pace,
but I never thought I’d be finished.
It’s not my age that holds me back,
pornography proves that performance,
but the lack of a partner willing
to share the messy spill of spit and cum and juices
that have flowed through my life.
Orgasms were once called la petit mort.
How true, how true.

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Biography

L.B. O’Connor has been writing poetry for many years and contributed to journals in both Europe and North America. He currently lives on the West Coast.