Ah, that sucks. (The situation, not the poem!) Hope the guy is berating himself for leading you on, and that you find a decent man soon.

Hard days and hard all night, this poor guy is being worked non-stop! Enjoyed that, thanks for sharing.

Sweet.

Lowers

Eyes open, and the ceiling stares back
I am on my back
With my arms pulled back

And my feet,
Moving at all, defeat
Fragrance of honeyed jasmine and heat

She is near
I do not hear
Her approach
Or the blindfold
Encroach

I gasp and I am all bare skin and wet, needful mouth,
Seeing black, sense her moving
Body warmth getting closer
Climbing over but not on
Scent sharp and fresh and hot
Above my lips as she

Lowers

A finger but no,
This is too small and round and hard,
I pull up to suckle
But am pulled back by buckles
And it is gone.
Until she returns when she

Lowers

Again and the tip
Of my tongue tastes a nip
But is gone.

Then later shadows,
Closeness,
And a scent so sacred
Feet placed by my racing head
And she slows as she

Lowers

Lowers

Slower...

My mouth open, tongue begging, unfurled,
I wait to be lost in the moment.
But she has all the time
In the world.

Sounds like the kind of "business trip" I need, instead of my "fun-packed" business trips.

Very well written. You're on a roll.

That was brilliant. I could feel the walls and see the pattern.

With left and right sullied,
He realised right there
That his socks were like he is:
They come in a pair.

Dude sounds like a douche. Hate to be that guy.

Just trying to connect with the audience and raise a few eyebrows. :D

Personally? Socks are for feet only, unless you're doing a Chilis impression at a party.

Yearning is learning.

You've got to start somewhere.

His poem was called
"Wanking Into A Sock"
And it had little value
Except for the shock.

Very cool, liked the ending a lot.

I walked past baggage reclaim
And pretended I was travelling light
But it always finds its way home
Which is rather impolite.

Her clothes on the floor
He lightly treads over,
Turns to the door
Moves the chair over.
She sleeps, doesn't snore,
The handle turns over,
The clock chimes half past four,
And the hard part is over.
Hallway, stairs, the front door,
He looks the street over.
Pale cool dawn, shivers more,
Feet step over and over.
On his own, as before,
As forever, alone, over.

Alone to the shore,
Where the waves wash and the stones roll over.

And seasonal, too.

Cool.

Just call me Mr Ed.