Erotic Poetry


My shoes are like a doorway into a party where everyone cheers
when I step in; moving like comforting hugs where ground and
foot slide together as if I’ve always been running together.

Only my breath holds back my movement around the track,
only my burning lungs are furious against my feet’s singing glee.

My shorts are like your hands around my butt spent from sex
and you’re playing with my skin while I scroll for music on my phone,
as if it is the first times you’ve seen my cheeks spread apart for you.

Only my running keeps me from tickling myself over the fabric,
Only my thighs slipping against the material hides my wedgies.

My bra is like your hands around my chest when you grope me from behind
and I’m smiling arched back to press my ass into your crotch, running
against the constraint as if you’re pinching my nipples every lap.

Only my breasts too heavy and sore interrupts my cadence,
only my shame slows my pace to slow their bouncing.




*****I’m dissappointed in this poem. I don’t like the last two sections and think it should stop with the first two stanzas. I’ve put a horizontal line where I wanted to stop. I think I got too distracted and bored to finish it well. I included it here so you can see my first draft of it and let you comment. I feel like the sexual imagery is too forced for it to be effective and while it convey’s my initial intent, does not do justice to the language I want it to. *****

Erotic Poetry

Cocktail Dress

At home I’m happy that their eyes slid down my back
to linger on my butt’s upside down heart, pushing against my dress;
at home I smile about their bit knuckles still wet with their tongue
and teeth marks red into skin when they shook my hand.
At home I’m encouraged to wear the dress again,
proud of the laughing whispers about how they’d fuck me
while their wives gave glances out of the sides of their eyes
and huddled together to keep me out of their circle.
At home I tell myself it doesn’t bother me,
while I hang the dress under plastic,
having cleavage line deep,
and nipples a centimeter away from exposure.
At home, with you rubbing my feet, it doesn’t matter,
and I can smile at their leechery.

Erotic Poetry

Love songs

Some songs remind me of you, when I’m folding laundry
or washing my bowl of chia seeds I didn’t scrape off the side with
my oatmeal spoon, but not all songs you like summon your
smile that I try to kiss before it evaporates like mist over my coffee.

You’re not defined by the punk rock you dance to when drunk,
or caged by the resonant croon of female vocalists and electronic guitars,
nor weakened by your tears from Led Zeppelin, or shamed by
your penchant for loud drum machines.

I don’t hate you because you hate country music
but love you more when instead of cringing you sip your coffee
to endure while I dance to lyrics soft and pleasing over acoustic strings
screaming melody over beat, and rolling like snowmelt down the mountains.

Like our bodies flow in dance to the music of our affection.

Erotic Poetry

Morning Rooster

Morning wood is a daily present you clutch at dawn
after my alarm goes off and I want your warm slow breath
against my neck with your heavy arm around my belly,
sometimes cupping a breast, sometimes lazy over a hip bone.

Today my mouth around you wasn’t enough to get
your blood moving to pound into my pussy,
but when you got up, and poked me in the back
after I’d eaten oats and showered tired muscles
three hours later I didn’t hesitate, my promise earlier
performed while you stood shaking over my tongue
and down my throat your cock-a-doddle-do crow.

Erotic Poetry

Couch Stretching

When I stretch at the gym, at home, on the floor,
with my legs spread, my back arched, and my straight
elbows pushing palms against smooth lacquered wood
does your’s harden sympathetic to my effort?

Does the loosening muscle wake your’s?

I’ve spent hours, days, leaning against tightness
but you only draw attention to one spot’s tight.
My dedicated abs are loose enough to roll my spine
over your chest while you push into the place I don’t want stretched.

You’ve said the curves are what is so sexy,
the way I curve my back, chest out, head raised,
but perking higher than shoulders, and legs split
like a triangle’s arms wide for your filling hips.

Does my deliberate stretch one centimeter deeper this month
make you one centimeter bigger watching me push
while you’re on the couch with your hand in your pants?

Erotic Poetry

Unexpected Gifts

My favorite is when I’m watching TV covered in a blanket,
you’re rubbing my feet with those too warm hands,
I’m soaking up your heat through soles and calves you
can’t help but massaging with my compressed toes,
and without speaking, you tug at my legging’s waist.

“What is happening,” I ask through weary eyes,
clutching blanket to chin, glasses tipping nose,
and lazy letting you pull them down to my ankles.

“Is this okay?”

I nod, half hiding behind the blanket, but warmed from
your chest flooding over my thighs while you lower
your face between me.

“Woah. I didn’t expect this.” I say
and cum to expect your expert tongue,
and precise fingers.

Erotic Poetry

Basketball Players

Playing basketball is only sexy after a certain threshhold;
maybe age or bulk, but skill doesn’t alway wake my breath
below my chest to tickle my belly with the whisper of his moves.

Most just look like twigs flopping with a too large head
sweat stink instead of sexy, and redness too wet
on their skin to want pressing against my clean abs.
But I can watch college ball for hours moving slow circles.

I don’t remember finding that same desire in school,
can’t recall sitting in wood and metal bleachers with
school color ribbons, red and yellow, holding ponies cheering for short
cropped hair over muscular shoulders and easy jump shots.

Not like I drool over fan pictures where you see the giant
swell of their arms, their wide shoulders, looming above
smiling fake blondes in loose blouses and tight pants;
There are no dominating men at this gym, tossing hoops
that I would let engulf me in their skillful shots.

Erotic Poetry

Poem: Lingering Taste

“Lately I can taste you on my tongue.”

Does my taste linger in your mouth like
your smell haunts my breath for hours after kissing
you goodbye in the morning?

It isn’t the coffee you drank with your oatmeal
I microwaved for you, or the sprinkle of brown sugar
or honey I laced in the rolled oats after with pea milk.

Does my swaying hips tickle your teeth
hours later when you lick your lips remembering
how they moved against your chin?

It isn’t the cologne you spray against your chest
“to get the fragrance out there with my sweat”
or the brave bicep that cuts against my shoulder when you hug me goodbye.

Does my taste linger against your smile
like your touch whispers secrets against
my neck at work when I’m reading forms and toying
with my strays?



**I’m really proud of this poem. It does some things I don’t normally do, and combines elements that I generally don’t smash together. I happy with this one. Might refine it a little more, but yeah. Happy. What do you think?**

Erotic Poetry

Morning Guilt

There might be a sliver of guilt when I say,
“I’m getting up now,” after you peel off my back
to collapse into the pillows and re-covering yourself.
Maybe a tiny fleck of guilt how I guided your
sleep heavy erection inside me past my flimsy shorts
too short to cover my cheeks, and so loose I could flick them sideways.
Perhaps a thimble of guilt when you snuggled ind
moments after my alarm went off, and I let you hug
me for the five minute snooze, but after
tentacled my fingers around your flaccid sleep.

What guilt I had fled when I bounced down the
stairs for breakfast and you slept till 10am and I
got my writing done to music and coffee.

Erotic Poetry

Warming to your touch

The carpet scratches my nipples, but I don’t mind
when you’re riding my thighs and pushing me down
with your strong weight lifting fingers, with your
arms flexing my breath out through tight resistance.

The living room is cold at night, but your hips warm me
like your friction does, shoving up and down
coaxing moans and groans releasing tension pleasure
with every stroking glide, and hip thrusting ride.

I’ll melt for you any evening that you wish,
on the floor under your touch, between your legs
or in front of you sitting topless while you minister your
motions into me; plied by your back massages.



**my goal was to talk about his back massages but make it seem like sex. Did it work?**

Erotic Poetry

My best friend’s bathtub

Was it nervous laughter from the toilet while I was in the bathtub getting off?
Maybe jealous chuckle disbelief that my best friend was pooping while
her intense faucet sprayed my clit with hot water pounding
loud like only shooting water does on porcelain?

She went after me only twice of the easy fifty times I came
under her bedroom bathtub faucet; rainbow sunlight streaming from the
orange wedge bubbled glass over my tanned legs against the pink tub rim,
so much air, so open, like a bedroom sized bathroom tiled with white ceramic
and gauzy drapes to block the neighbor’s telescoping eyes.

I can’t point to one incident that stalled my shared
washroom masterbation; but between freshman college and graduation
I took my pleasure private.

Erotic Poetry

Didn’t notice

He was one of the first men that I didn’t see his face first, or his head,
instead watching his biceps curl and bulge, squeeze against the powder blue
stretch shirt white fringes and peppered with air holes. I was more captivated
by his shelf pectorals and tapered waist and abs I could see pushing
muscular against the shirt like other men’s beer bellies do.

He even had legs curving in at the knee from quadriceps that rose
more than an inch, and calves wide around the shin and almost
overflowing the width of his shoes; so rare when most guys
lay on the bench press bench and atrophy their legs.

I was thinking all swooning melt under his heavy weigths
letting him lift me as easily as he did the 100 pounds in each arm
how he would let me grind my crotch on his rigid core
and pump my thighs against his quads without him tiring

until I noticed the band of gray cropped stubble under
the shining bald dome and his icicle blue eyes;
he could have been a 50 year old model if only he had hair.

Erotic Poetry

Showing Handyman Hat

Your beard scratches my face leaving red razor burns
around my lips like a memory of your mustache after kissing,
but I lick mine sympathetic, seeing you lick your cracked bottom one
measuring how far you’re going to bring back the hammer.

Why I’m watching your lips instead of your flexing shoulder,
or how your butt looks in those old jeans; at times looking
either too tight your belly just a little too big from beer and gyros,
or too baggy for your narrow waist and wide pecs.

Maybe I’m flicking my tongue over dry lips
watching you measure with crackling yellow aluminium tape,
squint with precision to hold the nail, and lift heavy objects
instead of pushing a hand between my legs while
your parents scurry around us unpacking boxes and
arguing with your brother’s wife.

Erotic Poetry

Early Morning Dance

Dancing is like showing your soul with the cover of fun
riding my smile like the wind blows happy through hair
and spring branches carrying the promise of summer blossoms
to herald the bugs that birds gorge on like your eyes devour my hips
swaying to my torso moving with my steps to beats you can’t hear
but know are pulsing inside you too like you want to
pulse inside me.

Yoga pants didn’t just start a revolution of comfort, but
of sexuality, and boldness; the hug and smooth filter
to cellulite and flab like armor against the skin tight display
like dancing full of laughter and joy;
but my moves are all displaying curves for you to move with.

Erotic Poetry

Ten years from now

Ten years from now I’ll be looking at a different ass
(if I can see it under the blazer) two rows in front of me while we stand for the gospel,
I’ll be wondering if those broad shoulders curve to strong pecs and rippled
back muscles that would flex into my fingers half the size of his sausages.

Ten years from now, child maybe clinging to my painted nails,
toying with my bracelet or rings, I’ll be thinking whether his
balls are shaved, or what it feels like to look up at his stubbled chin
from my knees.

Ten years from now, husband maybe, smiles at me
when we sit down when the Priest indicated we should
I’ll return the mirth and think if the guy two rows up can
have the strength to lift me up and down while I ride him,
if he could last while he sat and I bounced sitting up and down.

Just like today I wondered at the guy’s butt two rows up
while I held your hand.

Erotic Poetry

Risen again

Do you think God cares that we had sex before dressing for church?
minds that we fucked in the shower and your cum washing off
my butt seconds after splashing skin splashed away from the
faucet spray?

Do you think Jesus cared that Mary, not his mother, was a whore
before he scooped her up and redeemed her soul?
cared that once resurrected we slapped a virgin birth myth
on his name like every other civilization hero?

Do you think our pretty sundresses, skirts, and leggings
pastel bright matter to God’s attention? Does he look
longingly at men’s pink blazers or my breasts under
the tight cotton straining shoulders?

Do you think the priest cares that I’m smiling
less from his words and more from your hand holding mine
resting on the wooden pew between us?

Erotic Poetry

Squeezing inside me

After work I want to be squeezed,
not the grip on leg between thumb and finger,
nor the press into the couch from your weight into me;
I want the compression of your torso flexing
muscles hard bicep bumps bruising my shoulders
displacing my sockets while I collapse into myself
from your tight embrace: protective and violent
at the same time.

I want to be squeezed so tight I can’t inhale and I
trust you so much that you’ll let me breathe in when
you think I can’t handle any more; not letting me pass out
and maybe, when I turn around in your arms you’ll pull my
robe over my hips, slide your erection into me
and fuck me while pressuring my skin against my bones
like you’re making particle board infused with your soul
when you cum inside.

Erotic Poetry

Patience like Snowmelt

When I’m on the phone with my family and you’re waiting
to continue our movie extending my hand is like
the first snow of winter that lasts for a whole month,
it is like the first recognition of spring’s long sunsets at 7:30pm,
your hand holding mine with the patience of glacier against stone.

I’m not thinking of your hot breath on my neck,
or your body flexing under my legs; not thinking
about your push inside me with your desperate squint,
or your violent hands leaving bruises on my arms
from our passion.

Erotic Poetry

Wine counts

Wine is better than beer today,
last year it was vodka and gin,
five years ago red beers like Killian’s;
all get me naked and riding your stomach
while you fend off my kisses when you’re
trying to play video games on the TV.

I don’t mind when I’m writing timing key taps
to your clicking buttons laughing when I’m faster
than you; cause soon you’ll be moving faster than
my hips can grind and push harder to new
heights, scores, and word counts.

Erotic Poetry

Adventuring Abroad

I’d like to sample Asian, African, and Arabian,
feel their tasteful voice so different from my own,
slipping into me like their softness:
violent and welcome caressing from inside
a tickle, breath, beat riding change through their
colored lips red and tanned or tuned to words with
continents shifting against my homeland’s tectonic plate.

I want to rise with oragsm from their forgein subduction,
volcano my breast to their laughing collisions,
ride the rise of their erupting landmasses,
and travel the world from their heights.