Long years of erotic starvation
have lent my dream-painter a lover’s license.
This night. This tumescent night.
This hot tumescent night.
I am sweating, splayed on the sheets, sex switch ON.
I follow your scent from the sidewalk outside.
What will your face look like?
Now, I hear the bathroom window slide open.
I have left the light on, just for you.
You must be slim, a gymnast, I think as I hear
two bare feet smack the floor at once.
Then, a little giggle.
An elfin face with raven hair
pokes once past my doorframe,
wearing a very naughty smirk.
From the bathroom, I hear an undressing sound.
Zippers? Satin against skin?
Some toes, a foot, a calf, a knee appear.
Delicate hands grip the door jamb,
and you, my delightful elf, venture another appearance.
You swing sideways, holding the door, like a pole dancer.
White bra and panties, and you have put on bobby socks, sweat scented.
I am fibrillating, paralyzed with anticipation.
You reveal yourself, full on in the window’s moonlight.
Your pretty head tilted aslant, eyes wide, little smile,
There’s some oddness about you that drives me to madness.
It’s the way you stand.
A little knock-kneed, a little pigeon-toed.
With those socks and cotton panties and the bashful grin,
I am almost at the top, without even touching you.
I rise, tucking in my belly a bit.
I open my arms, you come to me.
Almost nose to nose now.
You were made for me. Who do I thank?
I bend, pick you up in your lightness, lay you down.
You on your side, I on mine, we entwine.
I explore your face, your hair.
My hands expose a delightful ear.
I nibble, holding your shoulders.
Lifting your chin, I kiss gently underneath.
Your breath quickens a little, you guide my hands.
To the soft firmness of twin peaks.
One finger marks out its territory,
skiing, skating, sliding, stepping up
to the cherries on top.
Can we have a taste?
A little whipped cream, perhaps.
Now your scent rises the more,
and your knees move against one another,
popsicle toes gripping the sheets.
I wish to save your velvet valley for the last,
but you have insistent hands.
You left those cotton panties on,
and they’re a little wet now,
as you guide my wrist beneath.
Those knees, they’re killers,
and you can’t stop moving them.
Your pigeon toes have them in a lock.
But I have the key.
Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.