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.
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.