Archive-name: Poetry/tryst

Archive-author: R. Byte Mock-Frye

Archive-title: Tryst, The



                        The Tryst



        The old woman has a lazy,

        mischievous grin and sultry heavy-lidded eyes.

        She hovers over me and leans back,

        breathing hard,

        her hands running down my body as she slowly settles

        her engorged,

        floppy cunt lips over the head of my straining prick.

        It's almost like she has eyes down there!

        How long could I hang on?

        I am enveloped by breasts which divide and fall like a flesh

        fountain on either side of me,

        spilling in a wave of liquid flesh as she leans down to kiss me.

        I hold one of her long dugs in the cup of my hands,

        which seems truly to run over with warm,

        old flesh.

        I pull it over and bite the erect dark nipple,

        rolling it gently back and forth between my teeth.

        This bursts the tantric threshold and she gasps;

        her vaginal muscles clamp down and nearly squeezes me out.

        Our flesh slaps wetly together,

        lubricated by our juices and sweat.

        I grab her close to me.

        She hooks her legs behind mine and I ram into her exploding,

        nearly blacking out with the intensity of the orgasm

        we had been steadily climbing towards for the past hour and a half.



        For a instant,

        time macro-expands and the cosmos inflates.

        Universal secrets and arcane theorems intertwine,

        warping and weaving to produce the fabric of space.

        Old and young nervous pathways fuse briefly together in mutual overload.



        Later,

        we walk to a local coffee-house where we sit,

        not speaking, soaking in the ambience,

        basking in the post-coital glow.

        The expresso machine clanks and hisses,

        and vortices of cigarette smoke compete with

        the rich smell of espresso beans for control of the air.

        I feel a rush of affection for the old woman beside me,

        too full for words,

        and put my arm around her.

        my hand burrows into warm flesh,

        fingers trapped between her arm and body

        as she nestles under my arm.

        I kiss her temple;

        a wisp of grey hair tickles my nose and I sneeze.

        A soft secret smile appears on her lips,

        and she takes a sip of her mocha.

                                     rbmf



        Copyright 1991 R. Byte Mock-Frye POB 47111 Sea WA 98146

        reprint freely



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