#voyeurism
exhibitionist and ****** are linked by common need.
the people of outer, inner Los Angeles live in houses with huge windows; they cruise one another insolently, unafraid of being watched as they watch; privacy is meaningless—there is only the sexiness of endless scrutiny and quick encounter.
he feels the heat, the balance between absorbed and emitted. the camera captures the changing blood flow in her skin. she scatters and absorbs far less than him.
consumed within roots of coincidence, the invisible her comes out through his lens; and it reveals the world as it truly behaves, not as it merely appears.
May 20
May 20, 2026 at 2:38 PM UTC
Dancers slip past goosebump skin,
peeling silken layers from themselves-
eyes trace the helpless edges of chiffon
swept to the floor.
Impossibly strong muscles
and soft skin blooming, slicked wet,
brilliant beneath hot-pink neon.
A forest of false eyelashes, dense and measured in inches
stories hidden behind sparkling acrylic nails-
Some experiences she folds tightly, holds extra close-
tucked in the waistband of a lacy thong,
surprising even herself
when they release all at once-
their invisible tension
quickly relieved
like snapping fingers,
she opens wide, gasping
for vanilla-scented air.
And know that she means it,
when she catches her gaze in the mirror-
a moment later-
while counting her money with those same fingers,
the ones that clutched at the bar moments ago
pulling again and again with all of her body
knowing it would not ever bend.
Something seen far away in the fog
compels us to stay in place,
stops us reaching out to grip each others bodies
inadequate, overextended
never grasping.
Could it be the evil of the burning gaze
the one that follows us across those small screens?
"That is not insane, is it, girls?"
Too earnest, asked out loud.
Do they want it too,
the validation their ****** is real?
The external heat of eyes is too familiar
bodies comfortable under throbbing bass,
reflected passion
the spotlight, mistaken for the sun.
She turns her head
at an uncomfortable angle
to see if they are even looking.
We share an uneasy beat,
aligned in strange harmony-
internal, external.
Together in this club: we eat-
this chicken, this steak,
a buffet, the flesh
hedonistic and keen-
under persuasion of the music.
We don't have to haunt each other,
these ghostly hands are ill-fated
opening and closing pocket books and Chanel bags
hunting for the roped gold chains, precious jewels
lost to us years ago.
We should try to figure out who made it this way,
stop holding each other underwater,
forcing heads below us deeper into mud,
us gasping at the murky surface,
our souls float coldly in the shade,
alone, and in misery.
We don’t want to think it's our fault,
so it probably is.
How easily we tune out the morality,
and stay horribly fascinated by it.
We let it be horrible,
let it sleep in our bed with us, decaying us.
Open to the absence of consciousness,
like it or not,
and the ideas feed us
the taste never completely foreign.
All we want is for ourselves.
Fearing, cynically
maybe we are all like this -
screaming idle curses into hollow compact mirrors,
crying children trained to be hopelessly distracted
looking up to an empty stage, lights on, eager
no saviors to be found.
Reading empty desires aloud as they are typed,
like the entries from our own useless diaries,
thinking to ourselves now, all these years later,
that there was something that we had come in here for.
if only we could recall what.
We could always commodify our worth and bide our time,
make the capitalists pay us,
lie to ourselves, to others.
Are we better off?
We could always use our bodies
as vehicles
to push
against our better natures-
just out of the grasp
of unrelenting economic insecurity.
If we have more than this,
pray we can remember it tomorrow.
Oct 28, 2025
Oct 28, 2025 at 11:01 PM UTC
This poison you feed me
This head wound
Inflicting and compounding;
You will never understand
You size me up
In funhouse mirrors,
Tape measures all stretched out
Because you hate me
And so I cry
I’m sorry, I’m sorry,
I’m sorry I’m so big
I want to be small
Teach me to be small
Or, instead,
Teach me not to have a face
So you do not see me anymore
Please
The sweetness of a dehydrated body,
Tired, weak, blameless,
Addicted
Downing only buckets of saccharine hatred
It smells like cancer and bubblegum,
And that’s just as well
It tastes like
Blood
Sep 4, 2024
Sep 4, 2024 at 12:01 AM UTC
Why is it so interesting when someone else falls in love?
Is our fascination purely voyeuristic, like the you-are-there of reality-TV?
Is it jealousy or some unwavering belief in lovers as heroes?
What is this relationship? We ask ourselves - and them - let’s take it apart and find out.
Like those YouTube videos where you’re shown how to do French-tip nails.
Is love an impulse, a one-time hookup or even a summer fling, or is it about finding ‘the one’ in the face of our own obligations and ineptitudes?
Love’s ‘high concept’ - it’s many things at once - it’s physical, emotional, intimate - maybe even ******
Part of our interest has to be our affection (or dislike) of the characters involved.
A relationship isn’t a ‘performance,’ of course, but as friends we might be considered an ‘audience’.
Love is drama. There’s a cast - with their chemistry. There’s a plot - shot through with compelling incidents, difficult situations, tear-jerking agonies, and shocking twists.
The sweet moments, between the actual ‘wow, this is happening’ and everyone finding out. The time the secret belongs to the lovers - that’s their chance to privately define their ungainly new reality - but soon enough, the world finds out, and there’s interest.
At its best, love is the gentle handling of consciousness itself, to evoke the effective resonance of pleasure.
But has it ever truly been a private experience?
.
.
Songs for this:
Me and Mrs. Jones by Michael Bublé (maybe the sexiest song ever)
Me and Mr. Jones by Amy Winehouse
Jul 10, 2024
Jul 10, 2024 at 9:54 AM UTC
I can read her lips.
Each word formed
With the red and ivory embouchures
That play to my lust.
My mouth moves in sync:
I think, she says,
The blind old perv, she continues,
Has binoculars.
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 2:10 PM UTC
High above this
destiny
I can see your private
mystery
Mechanical wasp controls
the hive
Its sensors are buzzing and about
to go live
Over the shoulder, around
the bend
The naked you is about
to trend
Oct 4, 2020
Oct 4, 2020 at 12:49 PM UTC
Along a trickling stream,
there's a hushed whereabouts
she likes to routinely gather
her thoughts from, before
assigning her task
to bathing amongst
the shadows.
Today's reflections vastly
withdrew, untwining
such musings,
as a playful breeze
whispered unto her
of an unbeknownst admirer's
dedication.
And so avidly fixed it was
upon the arched swell of
her lower back,
she quite shivered.
But be it a pleasurable fear,
she allowed him such liberties,
and stepped into the light.
Dec 2, 2019
Dec 2, 2019 at 11:40 AM UTC
The lights stretch back for miles, hollow stares
all trained toward the twisted, shattered steel,
waved on in pairs and threes like visitation lines
at voyeur's speed, slow enough for a glimpse,
high enough for everyone to get a turn.
The night turns every shade of paint black,
each window to a tinted mourner's veil,
glass shards strewn by an uncaring hand
to scintillate like starlight in the glare,
sirens wailing away like the bereaved.
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 10:21 AM UTC
All we want to hear about is love and
Madness, wounds left in the mind
Where what's taken for granted
Was ripped out and scattered, just ash.
Maybe just madness, then. Addicts
Left shaking their cupped hands
Trembling out aching, quaking desire
Where stillness arrives with a kiss,
Where confession pours crimson,
A ****** of claret. Spilled into a glass,
Sloshed across a tongue, breathing
Bitter, barren, dry - washed down
With another glass, until the flavor stains
Teeth and tongue and lips. We are
What we drink: water and blood.
We are what we love: madness, confession.
Does a ****** see in their subjects
The viscid revel of their own scars?
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 9:54 AM UTC
He tried to remember what they looked like as he saw
Where her nails had sunken deep into the comforter
And where his sweat had flattened the sheets.
And felt ***** just for looking,
Afraid that their memories could see him in the empty room.
How ******* dare they
Indulge in each other when all it becomes
Is a mess for someone else to notice?
Selfish, entitled, lucky
********
And he was ashamed
Because he was happy that he noticed what they did
And because he felt like he was there.
Something so **** about imaginary inclusion.
Is that what they wanted?
Changing the bedding felt like desecration,
Like tearing down the set of a Broadway play.
The show was for him,
The show was for the other,
Who taught them how to act?
It hurts to think
About their hollow bodies
Mashing together.
They’re fake-ass moans that the other customers
probably complained about to their
silent spouses.
It hurts to think
That they whispered the moment away
In their insecurities and
in-the-moment-living.
Jesus, all for nothing.
And he started to cry,
Thinking about the heat that filled the room.
Letting his heaves mirror their motion, and
Then left,
Their passion still damp.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 7:01 PM UTC
And I laughed…
Nobody laughed back
I was laughing alone
There were eyes on me
I could feel a lot of eyes on me
Feeling me up
Lingering on parts of me
Some parts more than the others
The eyes soon got bored
Lost interest in me and my parts
They switched their attention
back to the customary dullness
However, every time a new pair of eyes set sight on me,
it lingered for a while
But they soon joined the rest
Eyes, many eyes, lots of 'em
I saw them looking
I sensed them looking
They wanted reason
They wanted a story
They wanted to see more than a happy face
It would cheer them up
Helped flush the blandness in?
They dug it out of my laughing face
while I was still alive
I didn’t have a reason now
But they didn’t care
They made it up
Each pair saw a different story
Some were similar, others distinct
Some saw varying proportions
of tragedy and insanity,
while others saw total madness
Some shared their imagination
while others kept it to themselves
Eyes, I wondered,
were funny little organs
They compelled the mighty brain
to think about what they saw,
every time they saw,
and they never stopped seeing.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 10:34 AM UTC
See the glittering dress
then scroll up
meet the eyes
zoom in as much as you like
she’s clear as the winter sky
not a grain of distortion
she’s a sight for you to devour
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
Idle moments,
forgotten dreams.
Listless wanderings,
raucous play and empty hearts,
bleeding away the foul nights.
What is a moment?
Come take a walk through the infinite second;
void of definition, standard or law.
Come and watch with me.
The sordid dens filled with debauchery;
the lonely houses drowning in darkness;
the enchanting thrill of lovers’ chase;
hearts stolen in the quiet night;
nightmares frightened off with the touches of a lover.
Come, let’s discover the possibilities of one single,
droplet of time.
The eyes that meet;
the friendly greet;
lovers we lose;
the farewells we choose;
Lifted hearts tempted and lost,
to frivolous imaginings at great cost.
Come and see the multitudes of fantasies;
donated or taken in a moment.
The first kiss we grant on tender lips;
passions ignited under the blessed light of stars;
to wandering hands prying into locked chests;
cruel bargains stolen and delivered in secret touches.
The people agreed to;
those consumed without consent.
All in a single moment.
One fragment can narrate endless stories.
Come and lose ourselves in the worlds
we shape for each other.
Blossoming loves;
petty arguments won;
promises made and broken;
lascivious thirst for skin on skin;
fights turned brutal, burning, raging in the dead hours;
shattered trust; bitter confusion;
stinging remorse;
the pulse of regret tapping under the skin.
We feel so much in one second.
Together, a seething, roiling
mass of humanity laid bare.
A connective unit, ignoring it’s separate
millions of limbs.
Let’s marvel at this spectacle.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
The boulders are freckled along the bank,
sleeping on lime-skin grass, grey and tired.
Fading black canvas shoes
attach to smooth, firm sides,
climbing a planet not as hard as ours.
From the distance, a spinning speck is seen.
With binoculars cupped around each eye,
you can see her twirl in the old, pink thing;
in the mirrors of light, you can see her beauty,
even if she has been blind her entire life.
You can see her rest her shoulder on a boulder,
gasps trying to grasp galloping breath --
and in between each choke, you must wonder
if you co-exist in this world
or separately, infinitely.
When you are drunk on the altitude,
it's time to step down and walk to sea-level.
Scurrying down thrown-up mountainside,
you should try not to trip on nature
or your own nature.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
Clouds drift atop the stimulus of life
– mindlessly numb voyeurs –
blindly present,
yet,
vaporously absent from blame.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
The internet, social networking, you, reading this, now.
It’s all about surface value, the judgment of likes and dislikes. It’s all about interests,
"Oh, you like this band?
this movie,
this painting,
this author,
this show,
this piece of ****
"Oh, you’re so cool, you’re such an awesome person", obviously.
You will never know me, never know who I am, and with the way this world has shifted,
with the acceptance of this voyeurism of superficial attractions, I’m afraid neither will I.
You’ll rarely know when I’m genuine or when I’m plagiarizing, original or manufactured, real or phony.
But that’s alright, it keeps a distance, it keeps things calm, and safe, and clean.
That’s all we really want. A facade, a dream, the image of our desires, not the manifestation.
We want cold, hard, unbreakable, shiny plastic perfection.
No one wants the warm, moist, moving, ever changing mess that is life, and love, and humanity.
So stay at your computer, stay inside your factory, keep typing instead of talking,
keep pushing instead of feeling, keep staring instead of looking.
It’s okay, it’s alright, it’s now.
circa 2009
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
I woke up to a beautiful summer morning. The sun was shining and the rainclouds were far away. I decided I would spend the day on the beach. I always enjoy visiting the beach as it gives me an opportunity to laugh at people's hideous bodies. But where? And then, suddenly, a wonderful idea came to me: why not go to a nudist beach as they always attract the ugliest people with the worst bodies imaginable. And you get to see their naughty bits too, for added humour.
So I rushed to my computer to check the Internet for possibilities and, to my utter amazement, I discovered there was a naturist beach only fifty miles from my beautiful home. As I read the details of the beach and the directions, I had a sense of déja vu; I realised with a frisson of ****** anticipation that it was the very same beach described by Victor the ****** in his wonderful story "Confessions of a ****** which held pride of place on my toilet reading shelf.
I was at the wheel of my incredibly expensive and luxurious car just as soon as my servants had packed my essential requirements: icebox with chilled vintage champagne, lightweight folding gold-plated sun-lounger, vicuna picnic rug and of course my lunch hamper. My chef had rapidly prepared a delicious impromptu luncheon of smoked salmon, steak tartare and a selection of other goodies. I decided to dispense with the services of my chauffeur in the interests of preserving the confidentiality of my destination.
In less than an hour and a half I was there; and the place was exactly as Victor had described it in his immortal novella: a long stretch of mixed sand and pebbles, backed by dunes planted with wild grass, waving romantically in the sea breeze. Idyllic, and crawling with naked perverts as a bonus. I parked my car and transported my equipment to the dunes. I regretted not having brought one of the servants as the hamper and icebox were quite cumbersome and heavy. I was perspiring gently by the time I had unloaded everything and set it all up to my satisfaction.
I took some care in selecting what I felt was the optimum location as I needed to combine the potentially conflicting benefits of wanting to see as many naked people as possible (hopefully including some *** action) with the need for privacy. After all I am famous. I finally chose a spot where there were several ghastly specimens on view for a few laughs and where I could also see a potentially interesting couple who might be exhibitionistic perverts. The man was about 45, shaven-headed, skinny and prematurely wrinkled all over by the sun (yes, I do mean all over) and he had an interesting tattoo on his back: "I love hot ***** *** which I saw as promising. The woman was plump with pendulous ******* and very prominent buttocks; additionally - how can I put this delicately? - her **** was totally bereft of hair.
Before settling down to my lunch, I felt a little perambulation would not come amiss. So, as bold as brass, off I went for a little **** stroll through the dunes. I will not describe in full detail the visual horrors I encountered: hirsute old men playing aimlessly with wizened, shrunken todgers the size of a thimble; obese old biddies, their rolls of sun-tanned lard hanging round them like rows of bloated udders on a pregnant sow; tattooed bald queens, muscles bulging under lashings of sun-oil, their pierced genitals glinting wickedly in the sunshine; the list was endless. How could such grotesques revel in revealing their corporeal repulsion to the eager world?
And then I saw him! It had to be him! In a dip in the sand dunes lay a middle-aged, paunchy little man, intently watching a couple of old ******* groping each other incompetently. It could only be Victor the One-Legged ****** After all, just how many unipod Peeping Toms are there?
I strolled over to him, coughing discreetly so as to give him a chance to stop his furtive ************ 'Do excuse me for disturbing you,' I said, *'but are you by any chance Victor the famous ****** whose confession I read only last week?'*
'Why yes,' he admitted, 'but how on earth did you recognise me?'
I smiled and pointed to the cast-off artificial leg lying next to his beach towel (which, incidentally, was emblazoned by a giant "V", a bit of an identity hint, I felt). He patted his stump ruefully and laughed uproariously so that his average-sized ***** flapped like a pennant in a Force Eight gale. 'I forgot,' he bellowed deliriously.
'I'm just about to have a spot of lunch,' I said. 'My personal Michelin-starred chef, Jean-Claude Anusse, always over-caters ridiculously as he knows I often pick up people on my excursions, so there'll be more than enough. I'm afraid it's nothing special: some smoked salmon and some assorted cold meats, possibly a spot of pâté de foie gras, if I know Jean-Claude. And, naturally, enough champagne to drown a hippo in. Please do say yes, as I have so many questions to ask you about your hobby.'
'That's very kind of you.' mumbled the astonished Peeping Tom, 'I should be very happy to accept your generous offer. Incidentally, to whom have I the honour of speaking?'
I was, frankly, shocked when I realised Victor had not recognised me, and then I remembered I was naked. That explained it. 'Why, I am none other than Edna Sweetlove, poetess to the stars, creator of the Barry Hodges "Memories" poems and biographer to the intrepid and incredible superhero SNOGGO,' I murmured sotto voce, not wishing to be mobbed for my autograph.
'Edna Sweetlove!' he exclaimed, 'you mean THE Edna Sweetlove?' And so saying he glanced down to my genital zone in order to answer the question which so many of my fans have asked over the years. He grinned as he saw the solution to the great mystery.
Victor quickly strapped on his prosthesis and accompanied me (slightly lopsidedly) to my little luncheon site. He helped me unpack our repast and then made himself as comfortable as a naked one legged ****** could reasonably expect to be without a chair.
I must say Chef and his team had excelled himself in the thirty minutes I had given them: smoked salmon roulades, a magnifique plateau de fruits de mer including a three-pound giant lobster, steak tartare, a whole cold pintarde à l'ail, a few dozen sushi rolls, a monster summer pudding, and naturally a Jeraboam of Krug '92. No wonder the hamper had been so ******* heavy. I could see Victor was impressed as I offered him a chilled flute of the most expensive champagne he had ever tasted. 'Better than the pathetic, poverty-stricken muck you were going to gobble, I expect,' I commented in a friendly way.
'Mmmmmmmmm! Absolutely delicious, Edna. I was certainly not expecting this! exclaimed the grateful freak. But before we start on what looks like a truly exquisite nosh-up, I must give you a word of warning.'
'A word of warning? What about, Victor dear?'
'Well, you see, there's no, um....er,' he blushed charmingly.
'No what, Victor? Don't be embarrassed, sweetie. This is Edna you're talking to. Spit it out, baby.'
*'Well, um, there's no ********* on the beach, Edna,'* explained Victor uncomfortably. *'So, if you need to pump ship, you have to do it native-style "au naturel" in the dunes over there, which can be a bit messy what with all the filth lying about the place in that area, not to mention the lavvo-voyeurs hanging round. Or else you need to swim out a bit and unload into the sea. Judging by what's on offer at your stylish picnic, we'll both be bursting for a good old **** and crap afterwards.'*
I shrieked with laughter and explained there was nothing I liked better than a widdle en plein air or a double act dans l'eau. We then tucked into lunch with a vengeance. It was ******* delicious, even though I say so myself. After about fifteen minutes' happy munching, interspersed with witty small talk, Victor suddenly went rigid. 'Look over there!' he hissed and indicated the middle-aged couple by the windbreak.
I looked and I was surprised. The plump woman with the big *** was on her knees in front of her partner, giving him a vigorous ******* and he was lolling back in ecstasy, a broad smile on his face. He seemed to be looking straight at us, almost visibly willing us to watch. He winked repeatedly in a conspiratorial fashion; maybe he had St Vitus’ Dance. Or even worse, he wanted me to get stuck into the action with them.
'They're regulars here, they normally put on quite a good show,' explained Victor excitedly, his hand reaching down automatically to his rapidly stiffening ****
'Victor!' I admonished him, *'I would prefer it if you didn't **** yourself off during lunch. How about another oyster, you silly old cunt?'*
'Sorry, Edna, I forgot,' he replied shamefacedly. 'No more oysters thank you; they only make me more randy than I already am. But I'll have another lobster claw if I may. My compliments to your chef.'
So we sipped our champagne and enjoyed our luncheon as we watched the couple give us their little exhibition. After a few minutes ******* the fat lady turned around and leaned forward on her hands and knees and her gnarled bald hubby ******* her doggy fashion from behind with some gusto; this made her beefy buns bounce about like two ferrets fighting in a sack.
I glanced around us and realised that, totally unbeknown to me, the little spectacle had attracted quite an audience. Nine men, young and old, short and tall, fat and skinny, stood staring transfixed by the petite scène erotique before us, all ************ wildly. 'Oi!' I called out. 'Can't you see we're eating?' I admonished them, but to no ******* avail whatsoever.
Victor was visibly torn between his innate desire to watch the copulators and masturbators and with his understandable wish not to offend his lunch companion by manhandling himself unrestrainedly. But, thank God, his natural good manners prevailed and we continued to converse and enjoy our meal in the midst of this Bacchanalian scene of depravity.
I watched dispassionately as the couple came to what sounded like a very satisfactory mutual ****** accompanied by the observers' seminal tributes to their performance. I naturally had filmed the entire scene secretly on my state-of-the-art mobile.
'If you give me your email address, Victor my love, I'll send you a copy of that little show,' I promised. He nodded in gratitude. *'Victor the ****** at yahoo dot co dot uk,'* he mumbled rapidly, 'no dots, Victorthevoyeur is all one word.'
Once we had polished off lunch, I told Victor I would like to interview him with a view to writing a short story about his life's work. He was touchingly flattered and, with a little judicious prompting and probing, told me his saga, which I recorded on my Edna-phone. I naturally don't want to pre-empt my forthcoming mini-biography of Victor, but suffice it to say that Victor told me how and why he became a ****** he regaled me with some of the staggering things he had seen, he gave me a list of some really ace ******* locations, he shared all his best peeping places with me, he gave me the ultimate lowdown on the world of Britain's most celebrated *** snooper and I was touched by his burning honesty. I felt a tear ***** my eye at this tragic tale.
All too soon it was time for us to part. After thanking me profusely and making me promise I would visit him one day so he could repay my generosity, he re-attached his metal leg and limped away towards his beach towel. I knew he was raring to go as the best of the action normally took place in the early evening.
'Farewell, dearest Victor,' I called out as he tripped clumsily over a fellow pervert who had been eavesdropping near us.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
I like to imagine my neighbors having ***
Familiar faint squeaks catch my interest while ****
cooks red with my lips at the tip of the **** pipe.
First faint then foot to floor driving the grand prix
while exhaling and pale I stare up at the ceiling.
They're ******* That smooth and dark brown,
long black and kinked hair having, bare hairy
belly in leather jacket wearing strange and
tasty cut of chubbed up muscle overpowering
with his plowing, the the soft plump curves
of her in alabaster white, coif cut long but
both the sides, inside her just so open walls,
pounding deeply in snycopated beating
rhythms, in love or lust, it's left to be wondered.
My favorite balancing act, knee wobbling
daring to throw me from the one legged stance
where I perch with my ear in a glass, glass to asbestos,
living vicariously through them as if it's my sole chance to live,
Claire's mystical 1/8's blare in the stale air from
the lone speaker on my TV and my breathing flickers.
Huffs to gasping puffs to sighs leading to huffs again,
I can't help that I spend time inside my head. I want it.
I dream of my neighbors *******
Open. Bent down. *** up. Deleting the question marked
space between faces I make outside and in heat, alone under sheets in a bedroom.
I want to be ******
**** me. Pound me.
Press me down and wrap your hand around my ribs.
Touching. Taking.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
My eyes can’t keep from gazing at her
She steps into the room…dripping wet
Knowing I’m here, her parents would most likely be upset
As she would be also, if she found me here
Crouched in the dark…
Between her window and backyard
Her fingers play with her **** vanilla-coated skin
My fingers pretend to follow, not knowing where to begin
The pleasure erupts as soon her moans escape…
The contents of her inner thighs invade my mind…
(pant, pant)
The manner she caressed her body in a way no man could
The exotic thoughts of me fondling her no man should
(pant, pant, pant)
The shuffling of the branches I hid in started to make noise
Hopefully not loud enough to disturb the show, though
(pant, pant, pant, pant)
My eyes closed, envisioning me on her insides
My heart rate jumped sky high…
And at the sudden opening of my eyes…
She spotted me.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Venus eye trap please
Accept my humblest apologies
for allowing these normally perfectly well behaved pupils
To rove carelessly across this shuddering carriage
And interlock with your own
For just a fraction
Of a moment
Too long.
From two rows ahead
On the 42 bus.
Through no fault of my own I was caught off guard by a sudden and unexpected spike in interest,
That caused my eyes, hypnotized
To run their boorish and misogynistic fingers over the gleaming contours of your beautiful
Ivory toothed smile.
Stolen goods. Simply intercepted.
Not delivered to this godforsaken countenance
But to the infinitely more charming
Disembodied voice at the end of the line
Invisible, omnipotent
He's just shared with you what must be the best joke ever told by man.
Yes! I greedily consumed the ill-gotten merchandise and shamefully enjoyed it.
Quivering with benign, desperate exhilaration like the man whose jaw is slowly locking around the cold and tasteless barrel of a gun.
Press no charge. It won't happen again.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:40 AM UTC