THE BLOG OF DISQUIET :Qweir Notions,an uncommonplace-book from the Armpit of Diogenes, binge-thinker jottings since2008.
Monday, 23 June 2014
I like to listen
to Australian Pink Floyd
crepuscularly,
with a flagon of old wine,
plucking the electric
nipples of one,
who, not separated
by an existential void,
is tickling mine.
Why is it that now my man nipples like to be woman-pulled and woman-pinched, the harder, the better, but she never does it roughly enough, afraid to hurt me, remembering how years ago her touching them brought yells of writhing protest? How is it that they are not as sensitive whereas the penis and the whole body are more so? A perk or an irony of age? A mark of an Epicurean mature lover or one tasting the strawberry before letting go of the edge of the cliff?
1 comment:
Why is it that now my man nipples like to be woman-pulled and woman-pinched, the harder, the better, but she never does it roughly enough, afraid to hurt me, remembering how years ago her touching them brought yells of writhing protest? How is it that they are not as sensitive whereas the penis and the whole body are more so? A perk or an irony of age? A mark of an Epicurean mature lover or one tasting the strawberry before letting go of the edge of the cliff?
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