Saturday, November 29, 2008

Writing is Like ... Cooking is Like ... and F'ing is Like .....

I'm having grownup stragglers in this evening for another holiday dinner, to which I have gone out and rounded up a spiral cut ham, which I plan to honey-bake. Yeah, you can go to the store and get them already Honey-Baked but I like to make love to my own ham, all by myself, if you don't mind.

Accompanying the ham will be my "tweaked" version of the green bean/mushroom dish with the crisp onion topping; steamed carrots with slivers of red, yellow and orange sweet peppers; flaky biscuits; this yummy baked yam recipe I found here (a must try!); red potatoes, cubed; rich sour cream; real butter, wine and our spirits ... and then ...

...and then ... and then, and then, oooooooooooooooooooooh, and then ... well, below is a poem about how I F'! ... which is exactly how I write, which is exactly how I cook ... which may be exactly how I do EVERYTHING ... although in writing, it probably all sounds better.

In real life I'm a clutz, so there should be a line or two below where I fall off the bed, or put my elbow in the guy's eye socket, but poetic justice, I always leave those parts out. :) And you know when I'm cooking today, there is going to be brown sugar and real maple syrup splattered on my socks and orange rinds in my hair!

How These Things Happen

You say, you think
you need to be
underneath me.
And so it goes,
something like this:
You are underneath me.
Enough said, except ... legs open.
I guide you inside.
I press down on you,
pulling you in.
I move on you.
You in me.
"Like this?"
Silly of me to ask.
Your face says yes.
It goes without saying,
but I look to your face
to say it again, anyway,
my breasts colliding
with your chest,
as I crouch down on you,
bringing you further into me,
me all wrapped up in you.
I move my hips, rhythmically,
and sometimes not, just to tease.
My face lies next to yours.
Your breath in my ear.
My hair across your face.
My hands gripping your chest.
My thumbs on the flick and press
of your stiff nipple switches.
Your hands on my hips,
guiding me.
My thighs hugging you,
my heels pressed to your knees.
You exploding into me,
or was that me into you?
I lose track of the sounds
that leave my mouth,
when my name
erupts from your throat.
All because, you said,
you needed to be ...
... underneath me.

a.c. 2000-and-something

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