Sunday, July 25, 2010


by Lauri Adverb

It starts a tingle,
fleeting thought
of yr lips brushing mine,
her hips swaying
against a suburban silhouette,
the sound my cunt-lips make
when moist and in motion.

At five, summer afternoons
my mom would nap
in the cool of the basement.
Not tired, I’d nap, too.
Under a thin sheet
as the damp heat
pervaded the room,

I snuck my hand down cotton briefs,
thrilling in the sensation
of my index finger rolling
on my clit.

Age nine: three times
a day I’d stealth
to the side of my large bed
with large pillow, the high
frame and flowered sheet around it
hiding me from view.
the pillow became Johnny Depp,
Jon Bon Jovi.
I rode them, quiet ecstactic,
talking dirty to them,
sure they were getting off just as good
and amazed at my prowess.
After, we’d cuddle, spent.

Throughout timid teenage years
once they dropped me off in their parents’ cars,
the boys I’d never let touch me down there
became my bitches
in the dark silence of my bedroom,
punctuated by my hushed moans
and mother’s snore.

I learned to ride
before I ever
climbed a man.

No comments:

Post a Comment