Any guy worthy of the name just loves it. And any woman who wants titillation without vulgarity knows that erotica is porn for discerning tastes, right?
Well, poets know ALL about erotica, we feel it in every line, every breath.
But writing erotica is difficult, to say the least. There is always a line we are afraid to cross. Maybe afraid is not the right word here, more like hesitant. Don't get me wrong, I've crossed the line, I am a champion line-crosser, ask my wife, I can recall asking my mom as a kid, "Hey, if I never cross the line, how the heck am I supposed to know where it is?", but when I am writing poems that I WANT to come across as erotica, and not porn, and not in-your-face-sexuality, I am hyper aware of the line.
Speaking of my wife, she is, of course, my muse and inspiration for most of my erotica. A woman of infinite passions and a healthy appetite for a good time, she suits my idea of what it means to be erotic - sexual without being overt, saucy without coming across as skanky, elegant enough to thrill me when she lets her desires rule her actions, and most of all, angelic enough to look at me and see me as I could be, while loving me as I am.
Which brings me to today's poem.
Heat For A Snowy Winter's Night
Welcome my rubicund weight
if you will,
wrapping yourself beneath me,
grounding me while giving me wings.
Shifting skin and twin hearts echo
the fandango rhythm of heartbeats,
warmed by the embers of lusts
Matched only by the fever
of sweat-slick fingertips
tangled in hair,
grasping and pulling.
The skin beneath my lips
tastes of salted raspberries
while my world winnows
to this moment, this life, this love.
Fire consumes thought
in love-stained teeth,
until my name growled in heat
catches my passion for me.
Show me the power of your desire.
Give me what I demand.
I am as unrelenting in my gift
as you are.