An unpublished erotic poem I wrote a few years ago. Uploading it for NaPoWriMo. If it's not your thing, click off now...
You walk in, the corridor is dusty and musty.
“Nice house,” you say, because you don't know what to say.
She looks back at you, still in your bar uniform, staring deadpan.
She leads you up the stairs, confirming your fears: you're here for one thing only.
She doesn't turn on the lights: you can smell the nicotine on the walls-
you can see just the silhouette of her in her nightie.
She pushes open the bedroom door. You take a deep breath
of dust, old sheets and cat piss.
This is it. Can you still do this?
Your head throbs.
She crawls onto the bed, feline, drunk.
A breast escapes her slack nightwear, she rearranges pointlessly.
In the silence of the room, a pain in your finger
shouts a reminder of handling broken glassware-
a tiny crucifix in the tip of your flesh.
You need to tell her. You need her on the level.
She lifts off her nightie and her breasts are full and real,
and she pulls off your tired clothes, your heart and mind in a race.
She touches your once-toned body,
your physique softened through a carnival of student-priced booze.
You're kneeling, facing, and you lift her butt off her heels,
to hold her close in false affection.
She pushes her breasts in your face; it's an act, a charade,
a mimic of every sex scene you've ever watched.
You lay her on her back and hook your fingers into her,
curling, beckoning a climax.
She comes with a moan, clenching and wet,
the sting of her juices salty in your wound.
If she has anything, now so do you.
Breathe in that cat hair. That ammonia. Her scent.
Can you still do this?
She pushes your shoulders to the mattress,
a broken spring thrusting at you from behind the worn fabric.
She eats you, drooling with enthusiasm,
but you stop yourself, right there,
with the yellowed window frames
and the previous inhabitant's wallpaper creeping closer to you,
you drop the bomb.
You haven't done it.
She's “considerate”, “affectionate”, holding you infantile in her arms.
“What... do you want to do?” she asks.
And you lie together until she ups her game, urging,
her lips on your sweat-clad neck.
“A girl fucked me once,” she says, clearly,
but you make her say it again, lust blocking your nose,
and you call bullshit, forcing her into detail,
the feminine embraces, the kissing,
the girl's breasts against hers like a mirror,
the girl licking her, her back arching like a stretching cat.
But the fear of sex- the step into the void, the pain,
the shedding of your twenty-year childhood-
it's a big emotional cock-block, and you collapse, foetal around her,
clinging to her in shallow, twitching sleep.
The next morning, neither the scrambled egg nor the blow job
give you the further courage to commit,
leaving you with only the pulsing memory of her.