Saturday, April 30, 2011

Sex, as I Recall it.

How does one know that one is not a lesbian?
When you are haunted by the scent of a man.

Sorry, Ladies, it would be easier to go your way.
And find a hundred lovers, but ooooh, that smell.

The strong shoulder and the curve of the back.
The hand that envelopes yours and opens the door.

And that scent that even the shower can’t erase,
Especially when you are there, washing his back.

And then, in the sheets, when he slides inside
Without a word, easily, because you want him there.

There is no machine on earth that can match this.
There is no machine to kiss you and whisper.

And cover you with the musky, manly scent of love,
Perfuming you as you make the morning coffee.

We are animals. We must smell our mate.
We are animals. We must meet our mate.

We cannot do it here, on a cold computer screen.
We know nothing until our nose gets involved.

And our fingers touch and we look into real eyes.
Only then we may speak of Love and Lust.

And let our hearts be broken.

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