Erotic Poetry

Poem: Waiting

Background noise floods my senses like I imagine ADHD kids
feel all the time, the roar of a mini-highway constant in variable roars
and groans, not unlike sex between two very vocal people. 

Every twenty seconds I’m looking up from my laptop,
are you coming out the door? Are your sexy big calves wide with muscle
moving straight at me? Will you see me outside, instead of the chair
I was in while you walked in for your appointment? You didn’t want me to come back with to hear the doctor tell you the worst.

Maybe you wanted to save your tears for her, instead of in front of me.
I think you’re strong enough to weep at the worst in my arms, if you wanted.
I would.

Later, I’ll stroke your coarse hair, thinking how mine would be similar if
I didn’t shave in the sink, when you laugh how I look funny perched on the counter-top both feet in sink. 

Another three people pass, looking at me alone, averting eyes when I rise to meeting theirs, and again my writing distracted, takes seconds to replace attention. 

I’ll wait for you, and if you don’t come back, I’ll go in. 

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Bright and Hollow Sky

I’m staring as a passenger, staring at the bright sky of city lights,
the hollow sky of light not its own, but singing dull, a dome
of bright and hollow hope. 

There’s no stars coming out tonight, nothing shining tonight
the bright and hollow sky like a snow globe keeping us in,
swirling no stars and fatigue like water swirling outside the car
we’re passengers in.

You hold my hand, sweat building where our skin touches,
singing whispers to the car radio music, but I’m staring
with my head out the window not hearing anything but the wind
keeping my vomit in, and staring at the bright and hollow sky
remembering how we danced, how you sang in my ear,
and how I hoped to see the stars tonight.

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Youthly

I can wear those tank tops, tits flashing side boob like
it doesn’t matter, like there is no such thing as stretch marks,
flab or parts I don’t want someone to see.

When i was 16.

I can wear those tank tops, low cut stretch and sides so pulled
forward by boobs perking tight with only a bra; lace even,
out at the bars tantalizing to draw eyes I didn’t know yet
but would soon staring up from my knees in their room.

When I was 20.

I can wear those tank tops, too revealing that I’m wearing
at least another tank, or sports bra when I’m alone working out,
but wouldn’t dare shuffle about at the grocery, or to work,
maybe after coaxing for a dress up date so you can feel like role play
is more fun.

When I was 32.

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Teenage reluctance

How easy it was to cross my arms, cross my legs, and turn
my head away from people I didn’t know, didn’t trust,
their curled hair on a face too unkept to be attractive
and skin only just wrinkling to age.

How easy it was to hear his voice commanding
with confidence that the self conscious boys I knew
were afraid to use, didn’t know how, or had no standings to.
Easy to feel his whisper between my knees hours later
when I brushed my swim suit off and shivered thinking
how his beard would run rough between my thighs on his way up-

How easy, to not let him see me looking at his arms,
not let him know I tingled, just for one inhale
at his wide shoulders, his cute jeans butt, and chest
breathing with unslumped ease.

How easy, how easy, but he was married.

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Blowing

“I’ll blow you every day,” I heard one girl at the bar say,
thinking, “bullshit.” Those blow jobs will stop two years into dating,
and cease entirely complaining of a “too small mouth” once they’re married.

“hey, eyes up here,” you say, and I strain stuffed with dick, and
struggling to breathe, but twist my neck enough to stare at your
scruff bundled by your head tilted to watch.

Some nights I plan my next day, others I think about books I’ve read
tonight I’m laughing inside, while I work to bring you to pleasure
so I can get off and sleep. Bobbing my head makes me dizzy when I’m drunk.

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Rising Fast

My morning is two hours earlier than yours,
but you’re always holding an foot long mastiff while snoring
on your back, one hand down pajama pants.

It doesn’t take much effort to wiggle on your side,
spoon into your waiting twist to hug me back to sleep,
but I’m shimmying your wood between my legs,
and tugging boxers and panties low enough for skin in skin.

“It’s okay,” i say, after, “go back to sleep; I’ll make you breakfast.”

Erotic Poetry

Poem:Wearing leggings

My butt looks better in leggings than naked,
the tight smooth fabric like a compression against my flab,
against the cellulite born from long nights with belly full of beer
and pizza, tacos, and cock I didn’t care for.

You like it best when I’m jiggling below your waist,
as you thrust into me like sliding forward without
using your feet or hands, but humping momentum
to push me into the pillows and the dark wood headboard.

I’m wearing leggings anyways, smiling as I twist
in mirrors at work, and happy how my hips flare
wide as shoulders, and the heavy bounce I exaggerate
when he stares at my chest, not realizing I see his eyes.

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Leggings

The bitch looks good in leggings; almost better than
her tanned legs young and smooth like she shaves them three times
a week, and I loathe getting my legs coated in cream to scrape hair off once a month.

The young bitch’s ass so tight in the pants even I’m staring as she hands
towels with a smile and wide eyes at men too nice and lingering long
with stories no one cares about, so they can see her turn around one
more time.

I look too, and feel uncomfortable in my own leggings,
stretching wide from hips fat with beer and poor college choices
she’s yet to make.

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Already in bed

“I can’t wear those, they’re my Mom’s!” I say
kicking black panties out of your hands.
“Get me comfortable ones!”

I’m naked in bed after we watched a movie and you
lubed me with lotion but my farts kept you away from
my shower glistening pussy peeled apart to dry as you
rubbed each leg.

You hate lotion on your hands, and hate even more
getting clothes for me I can “do myself,” saying that I’m
“not a child.”

But you’re my ‘daddy, I moan when he enters.

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Black pants

Leggings, yoga, fuck-me pants, black pants,
all tight, butt hugging shadow show-off second skin legs.

I’ve been wearing them since high school, when they flared
at the ankle, and my ass felt wedged with thong more noticeable
before everyone started wearing them too. 

It wasn’t until college when I started showing cleavage
that I stopped wearing panties at all, spreading legs
for boys to smile at, or grope my butt while we humped 
on beer soaked dance floors. 

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Green Shorts

Today’s shorts are silky green, like a lime pie gelatin
whisking like I imagine the men’s breaths wish to blow
between her thighs as smooth as young skin and innocence
that spreads too quickly and too fast for boys that bungle
her wet sweetness.

The other girl’s uniform black leggings tight against her similar
frame; small, petite, fit like eating too little for too long, doesn’t
make her jealousy known as powerfully as I feel it.

I remember being that skinny before beer, poor food choices,
and hours staying up late drunk ordering cheese covered pizza dough
with ranch dipping sauce gave me stretch marks and thighs
as big as my regrets I’m now starving away like I tried and failed
to ignore into oblivion.

Your smile when you pick me up is the hammer I wanted
to smash into their young teenage smiles and naivete all day long:
for me, for me, all mine.

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Used for safety (From Gwendolyn Field’s Journal)

I’m naked at your front door and its like 2:21am,
at least you answered while flame consumes whats left
of my sanity.

I didn’t even mind how you ignored by blood caked skin,
or the leaves caught in my hair from when – no. I burned
their bodies to ash, and left smiling,
didn’t even mind, when you entered me on the floor
not even asking if I was alright, not even surprised
I was at your door at all, or why I was naked;
I guess you thought it was a dream.

Maybe it was.

The thirty years that separates us, is it 40?, makes your
cock so much more surprising. Bigger than any I’d had
that night so far. Biggest yet, and the most cruel:
fucking while I’m crying.



*** Latest scene from the Witch’s Awakening series. I’m on book 3, and just finished this scene where Gwendolyn shows up at Sam’s front door in the middle of the night. Obviously he takes her for his free use. He was first. Fitting he should be first again after devastation. 25,000 words in! Yay! STart of act 2. ***

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Incinerate (From Gwendolyn Field’s Journal)

I am the tempest burning with abuse,
the swirling chaos of flames that eat my memories,
I am the agony of fire eating your skin while nerves burn
and scream every inch they disappear.

You rutted me with my face on moss, tongue
lolled on raw root bark, and belly stabbed
by snapped dead twigs, with my body jerking like ragdoll dead
to your humping.

I am the vengeance returned, the fire from your pain,
waking redemption within me for your violence,
the bringer of death, the herald of retribution.




*** Poem from Gwen’s jounal about the night she comes home.  From my latest book series “Witch’s Awakening“***

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Recovery (From Gwendolyn Fields’ personal journal)

Like a stick with poking branches chopped at the base,
imperfect and knobby, shoving into my body I’m cringing
at the warts and vile grime crusted over and scabby.

His fist is like time crushing all before it but more tangible,
breaking my skull against the cement wall, and my blood
like a waterfall carrying my thought, my sanity, my consciousness.

Power clawed at my fingers, on my breath, waiting to release,
but I waited, let his motion peel his scabs, smooth his sores
with my moistness, with my tightness.

And I breathed, and he was gone. Forced away,
by power, earned, endured, energized.




*** this is describing Gwendolyn’s free use debasement in an alleyway; a scene from a novel in the Witch’s Awakening series. You can see the first two on KU now ***

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Longing eyes

Flirting with you at first was intently smiling when you showed up
smiling and saying “hello.” I asked questions: “whats it like outside (I could see through the windows),” “what are you doing this weekend?” (i wanted you to ask me,) “do you have any clients today?” (I wanted you to bend me like you trained them).

I know now, while you’re petting my hair, and rubbing my shoulders
with your thickness inside me from behind letting you soften
that you noticed my makeup, how I’d toss my hair out of the pony when
you’d walk through the double doors.

But then I would worry, wonder and bite my lip (that you found so sexy but I didn’t know)
and bat my eyes ignoring members just to hear your voice soothe
across my skin like your whisper does in bed speaking lust
and promises of love I’ve felt for months.

Erotic Poetry

Poem: College Freshman

She wears the white shorts like a uniform
against the black tee-shirt barely long enough to cover the last
inch of short material that hugs close to her thighs
and the curve where here young perky ass pushes out.

She has no right to be so fucking hot; distracting me
while I come and leave the gym. Fuck,
but I want to have an ass like hers, have it again
after years drinking beer at bars and dancing on tables
smoking cigarettes and pulling bong hits then ordering
pizza and breadsticks.

I’m paying for those choices now with squats and laps around the
track; jiggling my fat like someday this hot girl will,
jiggling my tits like she’s going to in a few months
for frat boys and slobbering drunks; like I did.

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Summer Sunset Nights

We spent hours on the pier watching sunsets and
laughing at waves that crashed into the metal and cement
burning legs and hips with colder water and comfort like
our boyfriend’s long silences while they were drinking
and not texting us.

We spent songs singing lyrics together like we’ve
memorized the feelings and emotions pairing like our
periods happiness and dreams for tomorrow’s love.
I didn’t know you yet, or even begin to dream the happiness you’d bring;
but I hoped, jumping into the waves when the sun sunk below
the horizon. I hoped when my best friend laughed, pulling me up the
slick metal rungs.

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Beach Body

My lines are by receipt, earned through purchase
with hours spent braving the gym, the treadmill,
and weights heavier than I once thought were ladylike.

My curves are by design, earned through genes passed
desperately through sex I wasn’t a part of, and still don’t
like even considering was real. What did my dad’s face look
like cumming inside my mother? Was she blissful, happy, joyful?


Erotic Poetry

Poem: Finding peace

Our waitress told us about her boyfriend’s aunt and uncle don’t tip,
and we made sure to leave 30%;
I didn’t mind as she told her story how you looked at her lips
wide, red, and good for kissing, or how you checked out her legs in
the dress as she walked away, and brought our water.

I didn’t mind, my boobs are bigger, you lingered longer
on my cleavage than you did her story, or her smile
when she offered us a rice crispy treat for being so good

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Sun tanning

In my bikini, half assed sun up, I don’t mind
because it is between me and the sun, ignorning any body
walking by; no one is staring too long to be worried.
Not in the sea of other asses splayed by scant covering.
Like being in a sea of people with cut hair, I’m confident mine
is styled too apprpriate for the setting, not half naked at the
grocery store, but not completely covered at the beach.