April 14 | Spring

if outside the window and a few feet below
is a midday’s sidewalk with men and women
passing by; and cigarette butts and candy wrappers
coloring the sandy, gravelly corners
of brick and concrete, red fire hydrants and
around the corner a playground echoing
the shouts of children; and if across
the street is a Peruvian selling the trapezoidal
colors of his people with bloodshot eyes;
and if cigar smoke already disturbs spring’s
early heat; then it should also come as no surprise
that without warning, or asking, or
even a kiss as she busily walks by
he bends her over the kitchen table by
the nape of her nick pulling her skirt
up, panties aside, and smoothly enters her;
or that she, facing the window doesn’t
try to push him away but grips both sides
of the table until the table’s legs squeak
on the gritty floor and she stands
on her toes; because in all that heat, odor
and noise, the lunch-hour daylight shimmering
between the hoods and windshields
of midday traffic, the smell of steaming
hot dogs, and the perfume of women
walking under the window and the horns and
the crackling tires rolling across
the crosswalks, there is nothing more natural
than that a woman be fucked from behind,
ephemeral-love-erotic-art-print-illustration-wall-art-poster-digital-print-home-wall-decor-acrylic-painting-fine-art-sexual-nude-0or that her cries are as sharp as the squeaking
floorboards, or that her odors
are drawn out of her; that the humidity
of her cries glisten on his cock;
or that sweat beads at the flexing of her spine,
or that as a baby cries in the second floor
apartment her own orgasm
receives the pulses of his because
her belly is flat and her nipples jut
unsuckled, because her own acquiescent
cry joins the baby’s cry, the braking
traffic, the beat of a car’s stereo jarring
the window panes, the call of a man
outside the window joining the booming
cry of the man inside her before
he finally shudders, stands her up,
pulls her panties beneath the orgasm
bursted between her thighs and deeply inside
the cup of her womb; because
when she lowers her skirt, when she turns
to kiss her gratitude is no different than his.

William Crimson | April 13 2019

Latest Comments

  1. Cille says:

    You paint quite a picture. I like these little vignettes.

    • willcrimson says:

      Thanks Cille, I’ve fallen behind on my plan to write a poem every Sunday. I’ve been consumed by the writing of a non-erotic novel. My bid to actually make a living as a writer.

  2. Mic says:

    Hey Will!

    I noticed you hadn’t posted in a while, so I thought I’d leave a comment to let you know your fans haven’t forgotten you. I see from your other reply that you’re working on a novel, so way to go!

    As for your (or at least your fans’) more preferred writing, its a shame to have such a long dry spell. But, with how lonely this blog has been for you, its definitely understandable. Have you thought about just doing one on your own so you aren’t bearing the weight of this blog all on your own? Some of your own personal series really deserve continuation, and I wonder if the liberation of knowing that nobody else is involved in your blog might help with that.

    Either way, good luck man!

    • willcrimson says:

      Hey Mic,

      Just thought I’d check in today and see how many visitors I haven’t read or responded to. I continue to write my novel. It’s at about 60,000 words and I’ve applied for a grant. I hope to finish it this fall.

      You’re right that this blog has been lonely. Writing with others inspires me, but so be it.

      I’ve missed my different series and I have missed writing in the genre. A couple story ideas continue to stick with me and so I’ll probably jump on those soon as I have time. I should probably write something shorter just to remind myself how to write erotica. For your sake I’ll write something.

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