Everytime You Bend Over, My World Goes to Hell

A flash of pink. Or is it orange? I can’t tell for sure. I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or remembering a real incident. Everything is fuzzy.

All I know is that she dropped a piece of cloth onto the floor and bent over to pick it up. And her miniskirt hiked up over her ass a little. Just enough to see color.

Color in my cheeks. It’s like a snapshot fires in my brain and all I can see is the 5 second video on replay. Drop. Bend. Show. Drop Bend. Show.

I go hard in seconds.

The train lurches to life. She is catapulted to her seat from her standing position. She falls into the lap of one of her friends. And the surprise of the lurching allows her to show me more.

Definitely orange. With elastic bands that are rainbow colored.

I can feel my own elastic stretch — it’s trying to limit, to suppress — but it doesn’t work.

She puts her hand to her face in shame. Maybe realizing she’s shown her panties to me. To the world. But it feels fake. She won’t look me in the eye so I can know for sure if she’s flirting or just clumsy.

I stare straight on as if I saw nothing.

But my pants are tight and confining. And I can’t get her orange panties out of my brain.

Melting Like Butter in Her Hands

The room is deathly quiet.
I am in a tiny space
where the dust gathers in corners.

A famous dancer named Jopay is with me,
sitting on my lap,
in a tiny wisp of a dress,
whispering sweetness into my ear
Making my blood hot
Making my back stiff

She offers herself to me.
For a night. For however long I want.
For a multitude of pleasures.
I ask how much.
She says 10,000 dollars.

I agree and she strokes,
I agree and she sighs,
I agree and she strokes again,
I wonder if this deal forfeits my soul.

My resolve melts like butter
in her smooth hands,
in her tender mercies,
in her velvet glove,
In her vicious circle.