Wet Dream

Poetry Project #7

I feel you on top, I feel you throbbing

So I go down below and I begin bobbing

I work my way up to kiss on your face

I’m getting wet, can’t you feel my heart race?

I’m now on top and I want you to touch me

I’m screaming inside, I need you to fuck me!

I tear off your clothes as you tear off mine

I want you inside me with no waste of time

I want to ride you like I am your master

Scream out your name; tell you harder and faster

I’m breathing so hard I can’t hear you moaning

I’m screaming so loud I can’t hear you groaning

I’m going to cum I know you can feel it

My body is shaking please baby don’t quit

I bite on your neck I can’t it no more

I look in your eyes as you call me your whore

I put my head back and let it rush through

It feels so damned good now it’s your turn to spew

I feel you slowing as you suck on my tit

You never closed your eyes and said fuck this shit

I’m glowing with glory you figured me out!

You know where to touch and what it’s all about

As I light a smoke I hear you say,

I never would have guessed you like it that way

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~2000 (age 16)

Dedication: For Lucky


I remember this poem very well. I wrote it for my boyfriend at the time, Lucky.  I was 16 and he was 22.  We met in such a white trash way that it’s almost comical.  We lived in a house on cinder blocks.  Dad was in the grassless backyard working on his POS Ford.  I stepped out onto that crooked stoop with a glass of iced tea to sit with Stilla and watch my dad and his two friends from work set up an A-frame to lift the transition (or whatever) out of his truck.  I noticed Lucky right away and it was obvious he noticed me.  He was a skinny guy in oversized clothes.  I remember he wore baggy light blue jeans and a blue plaid button down.  He looked like a wheto vato because it was buttoned to the neck [lol].  He even had a tallboy in a half-sized paper bag in his hand.  He gave me the goofy smile that still haunts me today.

He was such a dopey guy and he made me feel so pretty.  He was reckless and immature; you could hardly tell he was older than me by 6 years.  We had a lot of fun.  He loved everything about me and worked hard to prove it.  He was one of those rare guys that had feelings and wanted to show them off.  He wasn’t my first sexual relationship but he was one of the most intense and I was still so young.  Physically, we fit perfectly in almost every way.  He would have been a great lover to have met a few years later in life when I understood my role in sex better.  I really loved him, though.  That never left me.

His biggest obstacle in life was his emotions. It was one of the main reasons we broke up.  Stilla’s wedding was near– it was also comically white trash; she was 7 months pregnant, it was in our backyard and she had to walk the aisle barefoot because her feet were too swollen for shoes. Lucky was to be my date but something happened a day or two before and he cried.  It wasn’t the first time he cried over something.  I can’t handle other people’s tears.  I still have trouble learning to comfort my kids when they cry.  I’m not insensitive or uncaring, I just turn off inside when I see people’s feelings.  I don’t know how to think, function or react.  I usually react negatively because my instinct is to pretend this is not happening so you’re obviously exaggerating.  It’s never me, right?  But the cryer?

Lucky is no longer with us.  He met a woman after we last saw each other, they had a kid and he ended up in a rehab program through the courts.  Through mutual acquaintances I heard he was fighting to stay clean after his release so I tried to contact him thinking I could be extra support.  I wanted to be his friend.  I kept thinking of how he was when I knew him.  He was such a sweet guy, disturbed on the inside but he had a heart of pure gold. He could be that guy again if he had positive support.  A week or two later they found him hanging in a motel room.  I’ll never forget seeing his expressionless face in that coffin.  The blonde hair of his twenties had somehow gone red.  The skin on his face was thick and smooth.  Everything felt so wrong.  His mother, who hated me, hugged me as I cried and apologized as if this was all my fault.

When I read this poem, I don’t think of him in that coffin but I think of him kissing my neck from behind with his hands on my hips and mine against his bedroom wall.  I think of him wrapping my legs around him and singing along to the radio when we ran out of things to say.  I think of him making me a bologna and cheese sandwich after we destroyed his bed.  I think of the times we made out  in the movie theaters, the park, his bedroom, my bedroom, my backyard, his backyard…the mall.  I’m glad I have this poem to remind me that he will always be more than a still face in a coffin.b0dbb6a111449c05e86cf7b23640c372

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