Wakey Wakey!

Three AM, insomnia,
wide-awake since eleven,
shaking you gently,
whispering softly:
Can you help me, darling?
My body is aching,
my mind is wandering,
but I don't believe in taking pills.
Can you give me a sleeping thrill?

I grabbed hold of you,
carried you away to
our bedroom, and zoom,
you made my heart quiver
when you undid your buttons,
kicked off your slippers,
and pulled down your zipper,
then my clothes also went
flying in a flitter.

Your skin is soft as a dove,
so yes, I like it, my love,
when you're naked, next
to me in the nude,
so I can feel you,
squeeze you, fondle you,
touching you softly
and firmly all over,
as we roll together
in a field of clover.

Falling down together
in a closet filled with pillows,
I whispered to my lover:
Spread your legs wide for me.
Stretch them high to the sky.
I want to thrust deep inside,
and make love to you tonight
in a room lit by candle light.

My lady sits elegantly
in a 19th century
tub, knee-high above the floor,
covered in a bed of bubbles,
breasts hanging down beautifully
when she leans forward slightly,
steam rising to the ceiling,
meeting the winter draft of air
from the window above my chair,
and I can't wait for her to let me
in so I can touch her skin.

I know of nothing
better after dinner
than French bread and butter,
except what I've squeezed
under your sweater,
giving you pleasure
without measure.

She knocked me down smack,
flat on my back, lips so hot,
so moist, so wet, moving so fast,
left to right, and right to left,
enjoying me like butter
on a hot cob of corn,
playing me like a harmonica,
a trumpet, or a horn.

It's always exciting sneaking
up behind you when you do
dinner dishes in the kitchen,
slipping my hands up your sweater,
moving my fingers on your nipples,
gently rubbing below your belly,
leaning firmly against your skirt.

My lover unbuckled her jeans,
pulled down her zipper,
let me in on her secret
her undies were missing,
and hinted how later
when the show was over
the fun to come under our quilt,
doing it for ten minutes at full tilt.

When you went out to the Lamplight
with Sue, yakking until midnight,
I couldn't sleep, I wanted you near,
so I taped a note to the vanity mirror:
I'm in bed, my sweet, fast asleep
wearing nothing but a bed sheet.
I was wondering if you might
wake me up like you did last night.

Please touch me, tease me,
and give me pleasure
with a white feather
all over my body,
move it in circles
above and below my belly,
and I will rise vertically
to be kissed by you.

The circus champion
who ejects from his cannon,
flower petals that open
on a warm day in May,
the champagne that gushes
from a shaken bottle.
That's what last night was like,
and I can't wait until tonight
when it might happen again.

On cold winter nights we turn
the heat up to twenty-two,
play poker on the bedspread,
round by round getting naked,
downing pints of pale ale,
overcome with erotic love,
the loser giving, the winner
receiving a favourite trick
at the end of every hand.

My lady turns in red high heels,
her slender body arouses me,
her movements do entice me,
lips red as a cherry,
white stockings she is wearing,
blowing me a kiss, her hands
on her hips, snapping to the right,
then sharply to the left.
She looks over her shoulder,
staring straight back at me,
seeing me smile excitedly,
holding the panties in my hands
she just flung at me.

Standing in our shower,
bubbles on her breasts,
her hands making soapy
circles on her chest.
I’m certain that she sees me
when I look around the door,
and I know if I were in there,
I could arouse her so much more.

On my thirtieth birthday,
I sat in the buff, grinning
at the edge of our bed,
you kneeling naked before me,
with a long mirror behind you,
so I could watch you
do that thing you do
that makes my head rush,
my cheeks to blush,
and something else to gush.
I loved it very much.

High on fiftieth floor
in our teeny tiny
Seattle hotel room,
you darted buck-naked
out of the bathroom,
found your skimpy undies
beside the suitcase,
blushed bright red, rushed right
back in, and forgot to lock
the door.

Twenty years my bride,
faithful as the tide,
curving, fit, and firm
on all the right sides,
swaying and swerving
forwards and backwards
before my wide eyes,
inviting me to come closer
as she leans a little over,
and playfully sighs, making
me rise really high.

Freezing in February,
snow falling steadily,
winter wind blowing wildly,
the Sun has gone to sleep.
We watch a romantic comedy
huddled under a heavy blanket,
hands touching each other,
fingers in favourite places,
our clothes all in a high heap
on the cold hardwood floor,
anticipating more.

We are weekly sex gluttons,
belly button to belly button,
bed shaking, mattress warping,
frame bending, floor scratching.
I'm on top, squeezing her bottom,
our bodies both hot as an oven.

I love the way her breasts
were covered like a curtain
by her long dark hair.
She never looked so fair.
I'm so happy she let me
slide open our window,
and kiss them right there
in the fresh, morning air.

She was my ballerina,
and I her private audience,
watching her, turning from me,
one hundred eighty degrees,
slowly taking off everything,
dancing without anything,
spinning in perfect circles until
I couldn’t hardly breathe anymore,
and then we made love on the floor.

When I came home from another
disastrous day at the office,
feeling stressed, down, and depressed,
when I least expected it,
you unbuttoned your blouse for me,
removed your clothing so slowly,
and the sight of your body
brought me out of my misery,
oh, so quickly!

If I fall asleep in Fruit
of the Loom underwear
a little too large for me,
will you promise to slip
them down at two or three?
When I'm dreaming deeply,
will you wake me, my Mrs.
by kissing me tenderly
with wet steamy kisses?