The Good Kind of Hell

Sometimes attraction
is everything–it is
mutual: I am a white
boy needing a Magnum;
she is something from
the east that George
Harrison would approve
of looking like an extra
in an MIA music video.

She likes that I am a
musician; they all like
that I am musician. I
like her body, she eats
well, tastes good and
smells perfect; scent is
something you can’t fake–
pheromones have ruled us
since the days of Pharaohs.

I bury my face in her; take
her in. I don’t need Lexapro,
or Prozac, or Transcendental
Meditation–I just need this
moment to keep going. I put
the Magnum on–the Olympic
gold medal for men and drop
the trophy wrapper & take her
from behind. It is purpose-
ful, it is why we are here,
it is Zen, TV Dinners, and
getting over Ten Likes on
my Facebook status & more.

She talks, screams, and I
soak in her words and sweat.
Summer Sex is Pagan but we
go missionary; her cross
rests above her breasts
judging me as CCD School
Lessons play along with
her moans.It is wrong but
the body wins, and all I
know is the heat. It is so
hot; everything feels warm–
I’m in the good kind of Hell.

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