Can a real man be poetic? Is it possible for him to take his lusting wants and arrange them in such an order that it’s not his libido talking from his pelvic thrusts?
All men ever want to do is fuck, right?
A crass man is thought of as edgy. His poetry like a blunt object smacking you in the face.
Stop thinking of that, pervert. It’s not what I meant.
His vulgar nature praised for brilliance. Using four letter words like $10 wine. He doesn’t care if it’s fancy, it gets the god damn job done. The buzz of his pen showing through the scribbles and disjointed analogies. Even the tic marks crow for the cheap libations.
“Women love this shit,” they proclaim.
Is that right? Do they?
Maybe. Perhaps. Some do. Some even do all of the time.
But can that real man paint with his words and is it even possible? Or is he simply a sculptor, chiseling away with his hammer?
I’m not a real man, if that’s the definition we’re going with. I never want to be one either. Their violence is bubbling under the surface and takes very little bring out. Everything is about pain and dominance. Squeezing to show control. Respect.
I’m soft. I’m sweet. I’m a delicate flower petal that entices in the pollinator to take me with it. You are the bee in search of something and my words are saccharine.
He tells you he wants to feel the way your cunt tightens when he fucks you on a Sunday morning. I tell you about the magic in your eyes when I watch them open in the morning light. I can detail the flutter and the following smile. How I anticipate the kiss that soon comes after. He wants to make the most of his morning wood.
The night before when we were wrapped in each others limbs and teaching the bed new ways of holding steady, all I could see was your face in the strip of moonlight leaking in through the window. The transition of your smile from joyous to ecstasy was like that of a setting sun to a vibrant moon. We moved together and our sounds complimented each other’s as soprano and bass. Finally collapsing when the curtain fell, the applause was felt in tired lips on tired lips and drifting off towards pretzeled dreams.
He got off too last night, he remembers. He knows you did too. The way your screams ripped the paint off of the walls. Murder scenes never looked so tidy. Bones realigning after a hot mess of sweat and spit. Falling next to you he whispers, “you can get a guy addicted to the way only you can make him cum.”
A real man wants you to know you look good and can get him off every time, like its a talent only you possess. It’s all physical with a mental squeeze you crave.
I’d rather spend time on your nuanced expressions. Your tiny creaks and moans and what causes them. I want to see how loud they can get and where the lever is that makes your mouth drop open and your hips jerk into me. I want to spend time getting to know the intricacies of you.
3 thoughts on “I’m Not A Real Man”
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Thank you 🙂
You’re welcome, dear.