THE THRILL

Sometimes you are
a bong rip to oblivion
imagined clothes wildly
pulled to the side in
a locked bathroom stall.
 
Sometimes you are
a stranger, other times –
not exactly.
You press me against
a full-length window in
a tall building, or bend
me over the couch
in my office.
 
Sometimes you are
a woman; everything
soft to touch, all moan
and panting. I imagine eyes, attentive
to every curve – mouth, fingers, and wide
spread hands gripping
my neck.
 
Sometimes you
just want to watch;
tell me
precisely where to put
my fingers; give me
permission, – if I
ask – nicely.
 
Sometimes I
want it rough and put
up a fight.
You are the edge
of a violence I beg for
a red imprint right
across my cheek.
 
Occasionally I show you
a thing or two
become seductress, all flirt and tease
your eyes peeking
from between my legs.
Call me queen.
There are walls we
fuck against, there is rarely
a bed
you are never
a mistake
you are always the thrill
of getting caught..