"decorator" poems - Hello Poetry

"You're looking fit," she said, the words sliding off her tongue. "Thanks. So are you." It was a cold walk up to the oak door and my nose was red from the wind. Sun Meadow. That was her neighborhood. A little optimistic for my taste. Five, maybe six, people I graduated with lived on her street. "Where are your parents?" "Cayman Islands. They usually go somewhere tropical after the holidays. I would've gone, but work... you know." "Yup. No time for fun." "You wanna smoke hookah?" "Sure. What flavor?" "Don't be silly; house mix, always." She loved the "house mix." It was a slightly overbearing concoction of apple, banana, and melon flavored tobacco. I ran my hand through my hair to dissolve the snow. Her mom was an interior decorator, so I was surrounded by obscure, obnoxious, and expensive trinkets from God knows where. I sat on a bar stool and watched her make the bowl. Her moves had gone from graceful to inept just as she had gone from goddess to **** in my mind. She set the hookah on the bar and inhaled. Then it was my turn. It went on like that for five minutes or so as she looked me up and down. Every once in a while she would lick her lips or lean forward to expose even just a centimeter more of her ******* "So who's the new **** "Beg your pardon?" "You heard me," she spat. "My left or my right, depending on how many notes I've taken that day." "Ha ha, very funny. How long's that been the case?" "A week or two. Maybe three," I quip. "Restless yet?" "That's all I've ever been." Ashley was never tactful. She showed her hand too fast, but she bet so little it made no difference. She was also never virginal. People often romanticize their first time with stories of secret escapes or innocent awkwardness. I was never like that and Ashley appreciated the monstrous control and possessiveness I wrapped around my ***** I took what I wanted, she told me. She liked that, I guess. She knew a couople girls I had been with-- they'd shared their "stories" with her. Stories of how I'd ripped the innocence from them, the thrill, the wall slamming, screaming, cursing, the painful entrance, strength, weakness, and finally the out-of-breath finish where I left them feeling like rag dolls. Or so I'm told. She liked that. Craved it, even. So, I let her have it.

0

May 14, 2012

May 14, 2012 at 7:36 PM UTC

m-lundy

Ashley, Pt. I

"You're looking fit," she said, the words sliding off her tongue. "Thanks. So are you." It was a cold walk up to the oak door and my nose was red from the wind. Sun Meadow. That was her neighborhood. A little optimistic for my taste. Five, maybe six, people I graduated with lived on her street. "Where are your parents?" "Cayman Islands. They usually go somewhere tropical after the holidays. I would've gone, but work... you know." "Yup. No time for fun." "You wanna smoke hookah?" "Sure. What flavor?" "Don't be silly; house mix, always." She loved the "house mix." It was a slightly overbearing concoction of apple, banana, and melon flavored tobacco. I ran my hand through my hair to dissolve the snow. Her mom was an interior decorator, so I was surrounded by obscure, obnoxious, and expensive trinkets from God knows where. I sat on a bar stool and watched her make the bowl. Her moves had gone from graceful to inept just as she had gone from goddess to **** in my mind. She set the hookah on the bar and inhaled. Then it was my turn. It went on like that for five minutes or so as she looked me up and down. Every once in a while she would lick her lips or lean forward to expose even just a centimeter more of her ******* "So who's the new **** "Beg your pardon?" "You heard me," she spat. "My left or my right, depending on how many notes I've taken that day." "Ha ha, very funny. How long's that been the case?" "A week or two. Maybe three," I quip. "Restless yet?" "That's all I've ever been." Ashley was never tactful. She showed her hand too fast, but she bet so little it made no difference. She was also never virginal. People often romanticize their first time with stories of secret escapes or innocent awkwardness. I was never like that and Ashley appreciated the monstrous control and possessiveness I wrapped around my ***** I took what I wanted, she told me. She liked that, I guess. She knew a couople girls I had been with-- they'd shared their "stories" with her. Stories of how I'd ripped the innocence from them, the thrill, the wall slamming, screaming, cursing, the painful entrance, strength, weakness, and finally the out-of-breath finish where I left them feeling like rag dolls. Or so I'm told. She liked that. Craved it, even. So, I let her have it.