Invitation

Your back is to me:
freckled, aging,
strangely and unacceptably vulnerable.
So I stroke gently,
fingertips tracing  neck, collarbone,
shoulder, the knobs of your spine
down, down below the blanket
to the cleft of your backside,
again and again.

You sigh and murmur
a string of sleep-dowsed syllables
as you turn to me,
slide arms and legs under and around
and pull me tight against you.

The bones of your skull press against my cheek.
I feel the roughness of your beard,
the warmth of your breath.
The needfulness in you
lulls me to false and forgetful security
and I hold you hard.

Stupid me.

Your body twitches – restless, resisting.
The sounds you make now are feral,
displeasure coming
from a place below words.
You push yourself away
to lie, sprawling, on your back.

But still.

Your arm is around my shoulders and
again you pull me close and snug.
I reach for your not-quite-soft cock,
stroke it the way you have taught me,
cajole it to impatient hardness.

But you decline my invitation,
yawning and stretching into wakefulness
and dropping a kiss on my forehead
before you roll out of bed
to get ready for your date.

Catch and Release

Look at me, you say.
Look at this.
Your hands sweep down your body
From face to groin,
Presenting yourself.
A grand theatrical response
To her timid proposal to break up.

Handsome. Brilliant. Witty.
Charming. Sexy.
You tick the qualities off on your fingers,
A reassuring inventory of desirability.
She knows I’m a catch, you tell me,
And no one fucks her like I do.

Indeed.

You are all those things and
No one fucks like you.
The competition to land you
Is sometimes fierce but always there;
You have the luxury of choosing your captor.

Because you’re right, I nod in acknowledgement,
But I do not ask:
What about honesty? Loyalty?
Integrity? Self-discipline?
The willingness to put another’s needs before your own?

Because I love you, I do  not say:
You have the qualities that make people want
To catch you,
But not the qualities that make people want
To keep you.

So once again,
Someone who has caught you
Wants to release you
And you are struggling
To stay in the net.

Resurrection

The Darkness floated over me;
An inky blanket made of spider webs
That snapped open above me,
Hovering mid-air
Then settling gently down.

It draped itself
Over my face, my arms, my legs,
My body.
Sticky and staining,
It sealed my ears and eyes,
Stopped my breath,
Enveloped my brain,
Miring my thoughts
Holding me
Immobile
Under its infinite gossamer weight.

Hurt me, I begged.
Please. Hurt me.

You hurt me.
Made me cry, made me bleed,
Gave me pain and tears and blood,
And brought me
Back to life.

Photography: Working Class