Curious glances peer up her thigh like the

quick of a ghost tornado. Her hips arouse

desire and vex enough that he would gladly

exchange a bourbon for a kiss.

Her lamp lit so he can see her face ignite his

lust, letting his blood for whores to drink.

He gazes in need through her open robe of gauze,

his entry a non-negotiable brusqueness.

Afterwards sweat nourishes a nameless bed,

a wanton shivering in his flesh. The dying strains

of a back door woman taunt him to turn out his

pockets every time.

paulygrl ©