Erotic Poetry

So I took this writing class last fall and it was, quite possibly, the most interesting writing class I've ever taken. Granted, I only got a C - she graded a little rough - but the types of assignments we had were pretty crazy. Alot of it was considered, I believe she called it, "creative non-fiction" but we worked with several different styles of writing including love letters and erotic poetry.

No kidding.

I was at a loss with this assignment...I mean, how the Hell do I write erotica if I've never really experienced anything remotely erotic? Well, when worse came to worse, I went with what always works...

Comedy. Well, sorta. I didn't write up something that was flat-out hilarious or anything, but my approach was definitely humorous. And, in all honesty, it's probably the best (or second best) thing I wrote in that class...I really like it. I'll probably post the other piece at some other time, but for now, enjoy my attempts at erotic poetry:

This is real love.

Mother’s basement – always too hot. Always too cold. The smell of frozen pizza cooking, tiptoeing down the stairs.

“You hungry?”
“A little.”

This is real love.

Rolling on carpet – play-fighting, wrestling – all with the electric hum-and-bubble of a fish tank in the background.

Not everything is Barry White and roses red.

It’s a scene so silly, you can’t help but giggle. There’s always humor in fixing your hair and pointing out rug burn – because, you know–

“No, I don’t know.”

The look your mother gives you both – because, you know – but you insist–

“No, I don’t know.”

This is real love.

The hunger for food overcome by the hunger of love–

–and you wind up with a face full of melted cheese and hot pizza sauce.

And so began the Great Pizza War of 2003.

10 minutes, 8 slices, and a big mess later–

–we were feeling a little cheesy–
–and a little saucy.

This is real love – even if you don’t know it.

Temptation – and you give in. You suck the sauce from her bottom lip. And she kisses back in approval. You lean her against the counter, kisses intense. Your hand glides up her shirt, hers down your back. Your pelvis slowly rocks against hers. She quietly moans into your mouth.

And you’re starting to believe it–

This is real love.

You stumble down the stairs as one, barely into your bedroom when the clothes come off. You awkwardly explore one another’s body with hands, lips, and tongues. Moans of pleasure are interrupted only by your corny jokes; her quiet giggles–

–tension breakers.

“You still hungry?”
“A little.”

And you offer her the spot of sauce on your shoulder blade.

She smiles your sigh of relief. Goofiness doesn’t usually seal the deal, but fate must be on your side. She pulls you into another long kiss and you resume your wrestling match, rolling around your bed–

–but instead of headlocks and pin falls, you’re in search of erogenous zones and ecstasy.

You’re both sticky – sauce and sweat and saliva and sex – but you’ve never felt so alive, so you keep going.

This is real love–

–and you both know it.

She hesitates, but nods, and you enter. And this is a completely different experience than your friendly exploring.

“Does it hurt?”
“A little.”

But her eyes tell you to continue. Slowly. So you start slowly, but increase your tempo until thrusts and bucks seem to shake the whole world–

–and then the world goes silent. Deep breathing. The brush of lips against necks. Fingers trickling across breasts and backs. And you whisper in her ear–

–a story about your orange stuffed monkey, Arnold.

She giggles. And you both realize the truth–

This is real love.