fingersfingers
my lover is a little slut but she’s a slut for me.
i stop by her house for coffee after work.
she wears her short black dress. we hug and kiss,
the way we always do when we see each other.
you’d think we were kids but the gray in our hair
and the lines in our faces—we’re not kids.
we hug and kiss the way we always do. she wears
her short black dress. no bra, i notice when i hug her
and run my hands down her back. i slip one hand
up under the hem of her short black dress, and into
her underwear. panties, but a real man has to be careful
about letting that word come out of his mouth.
so they’re not panties, they’re underwear.
my fingers are inside them.
you’re wet, i say
to my little slut lover. i think about her fingers
and where they may have been in the moments
before i arrived, before she set the coffee to brew.
it is brewing now, and my fingers
are feeling where she is wet.
take those off, i say
to my lover, my sweet little slut. i pull
at her pant— at her underwear, and step back.
she pulls them down her legs and off while
i kick off my shoes, strip off my tie, and take
off my pants as quickly as i can without my
seeming frantic. i take my sweet little slut
by her shoulders and guide her to her living room,
where i pull down my own underwear—
i’ve never worn panties in my life, not even as a joke—
and sit back on her couch. she straddles me.
my sweet little lover, my precious and
wet little slut, she straddles me and i push
myself slowly inside her. i use one hand to
guide and help support me, as i am growing older
and am not how i once was down there, how
i was when i was younger and ramrod straight.
i guide myself into my sweet little slut. she
rides me, her half-closed eyes rolling back in her
head, her mouth open in a grimace.
too soon my rock, it crumbles, or more accurately,
it melts away, becomes a little slug again.
before i’ve even attained the pleasure of
the explosive release we men so compulsively crave,
it melts away, wet now with the wetness from
my loving little slut. my little slug, gone back
to sleep before its work was done, now on point
for the reconnaissance into the sleep of death.
but never mind that. i lift my lover off of me,
lean her back into the cushions of her couch.
spread your legs, i tell her. she does. she
loves me. i could never find a way to tell her
how grateful i am that she loves me the way
she does, wet, her eyes rolling back in her head,
the grimace when i am inside her. i slip two fingers
into her, slowly, and slowly deeper, then
i squeeze her and squeeze her, the rhythm
of my hand matching the rhythm of her
rocking on me.
wider, i say to my
sweet rocking lover, let me in, and i slip
now three fingers inside her. i squeeze
her and pull her, kiss her with my tongue pushing
its way deep into her mouth, take my other hand
and squeeze her breasts, rocking her on me.
then i slowly let her go.
i cover her with myself. we hold each other.
her legs are up on either side of me. i feel
them trembling against my sides, and my
own legs trembling. my little slug, wet still
with the wetness of my sweet little slut,
sleeps between my legs. but as long as i have
my fingers, my darling precious lover, i’m sure,
will still be mine. and when we have coffee,
i’ll be able to hold my cup.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)