Erotic Poetry
"Touching," an erotic poem by Celeste P. Stiles
The hour of light: skim milk blue,
not quite morning—he lies
beside me, his other arm extended
over the edge of the bed.
Two nights earlier I kissed a girl.
In the woods.
Before he arrived at the campsite.
She was attractive, the kind most men
would find hot, though a little too skinny
for me (maybe I’m a little too curvy
for them). I like my women as I do
my men: all a bit bigger than me.
She leaned in to me;
no need to surrender.
The wave of my body—
shuddering flesh—
she grazed a part of me.
My arms lightly held her frail waist.
Her tongue a swath slipping
like satin sheets along mine.
We giggled and walked
arm over shoulder stumbling
to the bathroom
and forgot about it.
My man came a minute later
(I hadn’t been having enough fun).
I didn’t tell him what I’d suggested
to her: a threesome in my tent.
I ran and hid, embarrassed.
She gave up looking for me,
retreated to her tent.
My man and I had sex softly and quietly,
trickling faucet against the waterfall
of snoring in the other two tents.
Hushed orgasms!
Reminded me of the one girl I slept with
four years ago. Made love to her—
my mouth and a single finger—she flinched,
flailed, deeply, thoroughly—
a racket of movement,
but she made no sound.
Safe back in the city:
my couch my bed my couch again.
Man and I made loud sexy lust
(not yet love) but a growing pang.
The girl from long ago liked me.
We had a crush on each other.
Lost touch soon afterwards.
I’d never had a one-nighter with a single female
(she was straight lesbian),
though I’d had women in multiples of men.
Still I think about her:
dyed-dark hair, blue eyes, those lips—
ah, those lips and teeth and smile
and tongue ring.
The squishiness of her breasts:
deflated yet plentiful (not saggy).
The sharp inward arc of her waist
and abundant thighs and hips and legs.
All feminine. All woman. All mine one time.
The way I navigated her
the same as I navigate a him.
Originally published October 2010