A Letter to J_____ (NSFW)

THIS POEM IS ENTIRELY SEXUAL CONTENT.

You have been warned.

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Fun Fact:
This poem was inspired by the same person who inspired “The Girl Who Loved the Lion,” years later.

The love letters of Charles Bukowski
Inspire me.
While I was east across the sea
I wrote notes on the backs
Of picture cards
And sent them to him
On the backs of ivory-eyed wooden lions.
I missed my opportunity
I realized reading Bukowski:
“…the inside of your pussy, wet, hot, I felt with my fingers…”
Thus I took—
As often I do—
Pen to paper
To start all over.

It is, I’ll admit
A little strange, a little hard
You know what I mean
To write such a thing.
I tried and wracked my brain
To remember how enthralled I had been
By his tongue on my clit
And his fingers in my cunt
Making me cum
So I could describe to him how
I lost track of my mind
And it was the tip of his tongue
And the crook of his fingers
That directed my heart, my breath
The moans rising from my chest.
I sought for the right words to tell him
That the sensation of his hard cock
Pressing inside me made every nerve
Simply melt though my spine
Was electrified off the mattress
In my body’s desperation to meet his
And I realized there really was no describing
The hunger of my mouth for his.

I could have, I suppose, told him
That I never did get tired of his cock in my mouth
Or how I looked forward to wrapping my lips around it again
And drawing runes on its underside with the tip of my tongue.
Had I sent the letter perhaps I might have told him
How I wanted to fuck him again
Him on his back
And my hips pulsing
Pussy swallowing his cock like some new pale-skinned Lilith
Or how I wanted him to fuck me
Turned over like I was a bitch in heat
Hands free to grip my hips twist my nipples or stroke my clit
Or how I liked to think of him fucking me against the wall
Using one of his strong hands to pin my wrists above my head.
I suppose, had I sent such a letter
I would have told him how I looked forward to
Him fucking me so thoroughly and every-which-way
That I would find myself once again sore and reeling from the ecstasy of it
For days.

I did write that letter—
Wrote it just exactly like that—
But like so many letters I’ve written
It will never be sent.
With this I find myself
Surprisingly content.

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