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Autobiography of a Poet
Lover, By Name Called III

He touched me, my lover, and I called out his name.

GORDON (Connecting with the Scotsman)


It was a simple flirtation

Words spoken on computer screen

Teasing made over the internet

It was but a connection


It was an evening spent in laughter

From both sides of the world

Friends? Maybe.  Lovers intent? Possibly

It was but a connection.


It was wary communication

Made stronger the more time we lingered.

Seconds into minutes, minutes into hours.

It was meant to be but a connection.


It was hesitant approach of a careful male.

To the cautious reply of a guarded female.

Man and woman finding each other and liking what we learned

It was still, nothing more than a connection.


It became heated whispered longings

It became fevered demands and instruction

It became a hunger which needed feeding, need that begged to be assuaged.

It was meant to be but a connection and connect we truly did.



Romantic lover of my dreams

Approaches me as a gentle man.

He kisses my palm and sighs my name.

But that was not how this lover came.


He was man of fire, passion, and intent.

He yielded not until we both lay spent.

No roses, or candlelight. They weren't his plea.

He demanded that I cry, "Oh please fuck me.


He held me down as he drove deep.

Watching my eyes, waiting for my peak.

But no sweet whispered words brought me my release.

It came when he demanded, "Yes, girl fuck me."


And I cried out the words he longed to hear.

Fevered, indulgence, wouldn't be held back I fear.

Hot, divine, wet, pounding carnal divinity.

Which brought forth the heated cries of, "Oh lord, yes fuck me."


Not all men come gently, sweetly, to taste love's rain.

Nor are they content with playing a gentleman's game.

They are forthright, bold, give as well as they take.

They hold tightly to the woman, passions real, never faked.


And making love for them precedes and follows the act.

Of either man or woman spread and pressed on their back.

For, when engaged in loving, it matters not who leads.

It matters only, the cries of, "Oh fuck me please."