Tuesday, December 14, 2010

The True Whore Sits On The John

I'm standing above the toilet where I once sat
as a girl I once liked cut my hair with a loud trimmer

I remembered that where I was standing
was where she stood,
a tight tee-shirt on,
raising slowly as she reached around my head,
my eyes locked on her beltline,
I stared straight into her soft,
pale skin,
filled with freckles,
about 3/4 of an inch by one foot
of pure and perfect imperfection
between her top and blue jeans

I sat there on the john,
wishing she'd be my hooker,
not that I would follow through
and not that I could handle it,
but I wanted her so bad,
and I could smell her,
I excitedly told her

"Your scent is filling my nostrils, my god,
I want to nibble on you so badly right now, right here"

and aimed my eyes back at her exposed flesh

She laughed as if I were being falsely badass,
but I really wanted her,
I hoped she could see it in my eyes,
one minute before I saw her little belly
and smelled her above everything else
in this poor man's bathroom
I knew I didn't want her sexually,
and now her nakedness and moans of pleasure
were all I longed for, quite literally,
as I squeezed my thighs together
in hopes I could hide my cock
that was growing and throbbing
as she dismissed my desire
as mere comedic playfulness

I still want her today,
wrapped around me and clamping down
as I cum inside her tightness,
even with the baby she and her latest victim made
swimming around in that place I know better
than climbing inside of

I guess he had a more serious look in his eyes,
and now, in this bold scented bathroom,
I don't know who got luckier
but I still envy him


© 2010 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)