Like every romance, it started with a wink – a one-eye wink.

She knows what she wants. And she believes he will escort her with flowers as she walks up the podium to receive it. 

 No one gets hurt, everyone nods. A little flirting here. A little salsa there.  Broadway gets thrilled. History gets tickled. Script restored as directors want it.

A nudge. Silly Grunt. Stop. Urgent grunt. Don’t stop. Dark hair of the new Pharaoh tangles with the purplish hair of a French dame.

Passion floods the bed like overflowing stream. Exotic dance gives way to slow dance. Close up. Hips touch. A deflection. Hips touch. A sweet grind.

Caress follows. Gently. The pulse of a famished soul rises arbitrary. Probing kiss. Little moan. Little groan. Heavy breath.

Rainbow emerges. Flashing an image of paradise.

Just before New Hampshire , it appears it will be a scorching orgasm. But no.

Vagina monologue opens.

Fondles roughly is the image. Whispers of delight truncate the anticipated exhale. Unrequited smiles flash on a crazy mirror.

Excitement spurts. The second man comes into bed in South Carolina . Seduction becomes hot and smoldering.

Then rapture. Forbidden.

Scrotum monologue opens.

The magic of love envelopes the air. Eleven thrusts later, hearts pounding. Consummation tangles. Trembling nerves refuse to calm.

All temptations are touched. Some with grandeur.

Moisten lips coil and recoil. Plants a kiss.  Parts for the teeth to give a bite. Lovers bite, the camera man says. But bumps form. Blood seeps out and clogs.

Hip curved like a half-moon sways provocatively.

Devotion increases. Pleasure must be given. Pleasure must be taken. Nibbling sounds drown faint sobs. Tears are licked before they come down the cheek.

Inner thighs quake at each touch. A torturing intimacy. Relentless. Gasping for breath. Gasping for a soft landing.

Swirling clouds excite the fans. Groins grind. Heads toss, east and west. Ruthless lure.

Gloating about the performance would have to wait. Until Texas . Until Ohio . Until the charged elephant sings.

The egg in the bottle is coming. It can be felt in the humming of the bees. Whips fly. Hippies and radicals come off grab bags. A handcuff.

Tide rises. Tide falls. Waves come and swallow body prints on the sand.

Memories of candlelight dinner fade and return. Cupid shoots like snipers on the sky. Temples of yearning explode, again and again, letting out secrets of sealed champagnes.

Scent of roses dropped on the floor beside the tie and the blouse irritates the nostril. Doubts arise. Is the endowment sufficient?

Though thumbs are crooked, suck they must be. Ecstasy must come. Lust drips down fingers like honey.

Muscles squeeze. Oiled skin glides on each other. Cold sweat oozes. Sheets damp. Sparks fly. With lights off, it looks wild and kinky. Mounting pressure. Decadent yearning. Gasp. Sigh.

Scintillating skills arouse the cheerleaders.

He stretches on the bed of roses with thorns still intact. “Am I an elite?” he asks.

It is only a day after Pennsylvania .

We must wait for Puerto Rico before someone comes. Though many dream they come together.

Robot  Villager

# 1 Scent of roses dropp...Read the full article. Posted by Robot| 23.04.2008 14:39

Rastafida  Villager

# 2 A rather esoteric overview of the Democratic Party in-house fighting. Laced with erotic metaphors that would make Cupid to blush. Poetry at its most arcane. Leaves the uninitiated with a feeling of orgasmic dissatisfaction. Love this stuff, bro! Posted by Rastafida| 24.04.2008 04:27