"Zipless sex" one cynic called
this festival of fornication,
this celebration of new-found sexual strength
and urbane honesty, of sex for sex as sex alone
and not a public test of latent puberty.
These damsels riding hands and heels
pursue their prey with crop and spur
for prizes that are neurons firing salvoes
in their bellies, not weary, vintage clichés
or semen spurts that stain their pubic hair.
Theirs is a mindless drive to join
the trigger of the spasms
stirring powerful surges in their loins,
of reaching an orgasm.
A drama in a field I saw before
while walking near the horses. A filly
frisked and nipped the stallion sore
until his thick, black rod arose
all of a metre long,
and he mounted her and rudely thrust it in
with heaves that drove her flanks apart.
His nostrils bulged and flared
in the frenzy of his ride until she twitched,
disgorged his shaft and cantered off aside.
He followed, softened cock a sway,
flopping side to side, a comic sight,
unfinished in his business, intimidated
by her flight. She lead him far and teased
him every turn, standing quiet to take his shaft
a moment, half a thrust, a touch, and fleeing
as of whim. She milked him dry and raw,
his rod withdrawn, her cleft engorged
and glistening while I watched enthralled.
Her wanton wiles and artist's touch had stirred me deep,
it was a game she played so well
I only wish her season never ended.
There is faint motive in your hunt of sexual game,
of craving for extension, of seeking out exotic fruit
emboldened by invention. Life's cup spills diversions
in a bounty that confuses, you savour without style,
relentless urges palter, you are afraid it seems
to counter this inanity in case it proves a dream.
A weakness of your yielding flesh,
the treachery where wit cannot compel
it quiet, clouds the nature of reality, and
drives this single-minded search
where each new conquest proves you right
and fuels desire that swells until it hurts.
You are the matriarch, aloof and desolate,
a valkyrie to consummate the chosen sons,
anoint their swords in sacrifice and dub
them heroes of the night. They rub
and plunge without their eyes for miracles
you promise in the valley of your thighs.
Yet this vision of a vamp arcane confounds urbanity,
invites derision from its very source. You seem distraught,
elusive passion cedes your nerveless grip
and you wield your body in erotic seas
as a rudderless, sensuous ship.
We are the watchers stirred to witness sex,
thrilled with sympathetic energy
which quickens in our breath;
but other forces guide your bodily design
and moisten nether lips in unctuous flow
without correction. Your cerebrum in muzzled
with sensations, you are coming with your mind aglow
in riot of desires you can only tame to know;
and in the mellow ebb of truth you find
that passion's flight has left you, too, behind.
© I.D. Carswell
