_________________________________________________________________ Strawberry Magenta Purpled cushiness, she holds the scent of her name between her thighs. Strawberry Magenta, swaying hips broad, strong, invoking murmured sighs whenever she's entered Sweetness lies beneath layers pink passionate folds of wisdom delicate center She's teaches men to let go of their hearts to reach within and scoop out deep violet parts the weight of her world jiggles, like laughter in a cloud she wrestles love to the ground and smears herself all over it, a fuscia shroud she wears men to bed leaves the scent of her name on the sheets Yvonne (c)1997 _________________________________________________________________ L L is the sexiest letter, an exhibitionist drawing attention to itself when enunciated. It cradles in a hollow opening between the tongue and the teeth an open glottal moan to begin, and then, it lingers on the inside of the upper lip. Like a chameleon L becomes every word it begins. It does what it says in lick and lubricate, a loosed adjective enhancing every letter it touches, like a kiss. Yvonne (c)2000 _________________________________________________________________ Sun-Ripened Raspberries She wore the shortest jean skirt she owned when they met, a cute little a-line hem that licked her mid thigh and rose when she sat; red panties flashing neon lit messages. she sat across from him, and parted her knees slightly a cloud of raspberry scented sweat puffed beneath his nose. she fanned the air to divert his gaze when he inhaled her. they found a comfortable spot in front of the world in the middle of a moment, where caution landed about five hundred miles north of her modest concerns. Yvonne (c)1999 _________________________________________________________________ the making of poetry doodling beneath cool sheets we found the merenge`, winding, grinding thoughts together, lock-stepped in its essence, two minds forward, then back. yvonne (c)2002 _________________________________________________________________ Me, Anthony & Michael My first orgasm was with one of the twins. I don't know which one, never did. Anthony and Michael, same height, same weight same dark chocolate skin identical light bulb smiles. Had my intent been to turn a basement- party slow drag into a sexual experience, I would have paid more attention to which of the Johnson boys had casually slipped an arm around my waist to dance. The synthesized thump of the bass made the floor jump beneath our feet. I hummed along to the groove of Marvin Gaye's "Distant Lover". Face stuck to sweaty face, neither acknowledging, but fully aware of how well our bodies filled each other's crevices. We did the grind on the sticky floor of Faith's tilted unfinished basement, ignoring the crackle of crunching potato-chips and pretzels beneath our feet. Hips winding, slowly traced the silhouette of a figure 8, his fingertips strategically guided me onto the right spot with the increasing agitation of a washing machine on spin cycle. Whatever it was, that creeping sensation in my belly forcing my hips to churn, wherever it was going, I knew it had about 30 seconds of song left to get there before the lights came up and embarrassed us both. Nothing is comparable to the "must-get-it-don't-you-dare-stop" wrestling that swells the body and all of its senses to one erratic thrust towards implosion. We never spoke about it, Me, Anthony or Michael. I waited for one of them to show some after sign of awkwardness or even interest, but they never did. They looked just alike and there are apparently times when we all do. Yvonne (c)2000 ________________________________________________________________________________ Backgrounds & Graphics By Let me know you were here! Ready to continue your journey?
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