Love Poem Attempt Number 1
All I could think about when I was getting down on that first night after fourteen years of celibacy was a poem. And it wasn’t even a love poem. Charles Bukowski’s voice wasn’t drenched in romance when he described this at his Redondo Beach reading in 1980: Hey baby, I know you’re into it, but…god…how much longer do I have to lick this thing.
What dominated my thoughts—other than Bukowski—as I was working hard not to swallow too much of her fluid, was if there were any unseen critters down there in her hot moaning zone.
My catholic beliefs had a visceral reaction to the thought of using a condom and it filled me with more guilt than fucking free ever could. The next day I woke with her musk still sticky in my beard on my fingers on my cock. I remained in bed late breathing her in.
I go to her tonight.
Happiness grows in my pants.
I suffer no shame.