had nothing to do with
my physicality being sandwiched between
my heterosexuality and
my lesbianism.
That wasn’t it.
That night, my intent was to
rest in a mutual completeness.
Mine was to simply
taste the flavor of what was yours –
to suckle, lick, and savor
the property he promised to you.
His intent was entirely different:
conquering prior contemplations of
four sets of lips and
four voluptuous tits.
The observer barely
controlled his stiffness as
he watched us choose
the ideal harness,
the perfect hardness, and
the ultimate gels, and lotions.
Sum total was large.
Without a question of cost,
he rapidly cashed out.
The dilemma was not his.
The quandary
wasn’t a matter of desiring
something I could not attain.
No, that wasn’t it.
That night, my purpose was of a dual nature.
My sex –
my junk-filled trunk and
my juicy melon-front
haunted both of you nightly
on his downstrokes.
The interaction was well overdue.
Spirit-bathed inhibitions peeled
along with our clothing.
The observer watched your
tongue trace my caramel convexities and
witnessed a familiar nipple entering
a place he’d yet to explore.
Curious,
he delved deep down
in strangeness, my throat, with
force and determination –
a manner similar to what
he promised to you.
Without a question of cost,
he slowly cashed out.
The quandary was not his.
The issue
did not revolve around the
spirits we inhaled;
Jim, Jack, and Jose hadn’t conspired
to push us into completing that item
on your bucket list. That wasn’t it either.
That night, my job was to remind you both
about a previously expressed sober want:
a ménage before your nuptials.
His job was to impale fresh openings
with the understanding that
an opening is good,
but a new opening is even better.
His job was to translate our inflections
as yoni thrust against vee.
His assignment was to maintain some
level of rigidity to ensure that
your harness did not trump his hardness.
Countless bucks, slaps, and squeezes
accompanied his drilling –
a method similar to the one
he’d pledge to you.
Without a question of cost, once again,
he passionately cashed out.
The issue was not his.
The problem,
the dilemma, the quandary, the issue
belonged to you.
You thought it was a game
until you observed your
beloved kissing and
licking a secret across my mountains.
It was the fulfillment of
his ultimate fantasy – that was all,
so you believed,
until you watched his
slithering beast cause me to
scream, twist, and explode
in a way that you’d never experienced.
This was to be an
alpha-omega encounter,
or so you thought,
until you heard him whisper
some mystery softly into my ear.
You’d pressed play and envisioned
three sweat glazed somebodies creating
a mental film for you and him to view
after the ‘I do’s.’
It was that simple for you until
he waved you off when you requested to
switch the lingam I was riding.
When the temperature of his
wanting my stuff exceeded your
preconceived expectations,
then I was the bitch.
When the heat was staring you in your face –
celluloid melting before your eyes,
then I was the bitch.
When the blaze hit the ceiling,
sending you to the corner to observe
his grinding me into the box spring,
then I was the bitch.
Your mouth ajar,
the fervor forced you to wonder if
his want for me would last for the
duration of your union.
You never questioned the cost, so
your oversight made me the bitch.
I’d be accused of coveting
what was yours, and
you’d be half right.
I am guilty of covetousness.
But it’s not what you think – he was one moment.
Had you replayed films from our one-on-one
exchanges for the past five years
you’d understand.
Had you cleared the smoke from the
inferno and opened your heart
you would’ve recognized
a five year truth.
Truth is…I covet one, and it is not him.
