Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology (25 page)

Should I use my fingers inside her? Now that we are in the middle of things I am not sure where the boundaries are. I want to feel all the warmth and wet, but I’d have to take my mouth away and I just want to taste her more. She is humping my face now, her hips off the chair, back arching. I want to get inside, so the hell with it, I just will. Let her slap me if she wants to. I don’t want to be disrespectful, but I want so bad to make her come. Her cunt is wide open; one finger seems lost in there so I go for it with all four. She moans loudly and is fucking my hand, opening more, then contracting around my fingers, tight and hot. I am so hard, so excited, I’d give anything to fuck her, but this is what I asked for and I am getting it good.

I
didn’t
have
to
tell
him
what
I
wanted
,
and
I
glance
down
to
see
him
seemingly
mesmerized
by
what
he’s
got
going
on
.
I
am
pumping
at
his
fingers
with
my
greedy
cunt
and
when
he
leans
down
to
drag
his
tongue
over
my
clit
I
go
right
over
the
edge
.
An
explosion
of
color
behind
my
eyes
:
a
psychedelic
swirl
of
vivid
reds
,
orange
,
purple
…
I
am
so
close
.
He
gets
it
and
keeps
pushing
me
,
licking
and
sucking
while
his
fingers
fill
me
and
I
am
humping
back
at
him
,
hard
.
His
thumb
is
in
my
asshole
now
and
I
push
myself
up
on
my
hands
so
I
can
get
more
thrust
.
He
comes
back
at
me
voraciously
,
knowing
not
to
let
up
.
My
whole
body
is
vibrating
and
hot
,
my
clit
is
pulsating
,
burning
.
A
sound
starts
to
roll
through
my
diaphragm
like
thunder
—
I
hear
it
in
my
head
like
it
is
in
the
distance
.
I
…
am
…
going
…
to
….

Holy shit—her cunt opens so wide that there is a void around my fingers and for a moment I think I could fit my entire hand inside her. Then, just as suddenly, every single muscle squeezes back down, tight. Before I can think about whether I should pull out, I discover I have no choice. She is coming with a force I’ve only seen acted out in porn. Like a geyser, hot liquid streams from her cunt, soaking my face, my chest. And all this is accompanied by a sound that comes not from her throat, but deeper down in her belly, like the passionate roar of an animal in heat. I am literally floored.

Catching
my
breath
.
He
is
sitting
at
my
feet
.
Peter
.
No
indication
of
shock
or
disgust
—
bonus
points
for
that
.
He
is
caressing
my
calves
,
and
,
after
a
few
minutes
says
:
Should
I
go
?
I
don’t
know
what
would
happen
if
he
were
to
stay
so
I
tell
him
yes
.
You
did
nothing
wrong
.
Nothing
at
all
,
I
tell
him
.
I
hope
he
can
see
that
I
am
smiling
–
I
am
exhausted
,
even
the
act
of
turning
my
lips
up
at
the
corners
seems
to
take
more
energy
than
I
have
left
.

Is it ok to want more? Practice, I mean. Truth is, I really love my girlfriend. All I want is to make her happy. Is there anything wrong with that? I look down at Maggie, her skirt is still pulled up, and her pubes are all damp and matted down. She seems spent, a little dazed, and I have a pretty good feeling she is satisfied, considering the puddle on the floor. I want to ask when I can do her again, but instead I ask her if I should go. When she tells me I did a good job, it spills out: When can I do it again?

Come
back
any
time
,
I
smile
.
You
definitely
need
more
practice
.

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Joy West

Bio

Joy West speaks sex, sensuality, and fluent feline. She writes about salt and thirst, Frida Kahlo’s braids, and the scamper of an armadillo. Her work appeared in
Labyrinth
,
eyelevel
and
Art
Matters
; she has been a featured reader at The Last Word and the Painted Bride reading series in Philadelphia.

Mini-Interview

How did you start writing about sex?
I write about sex so that I remember I want to fuck. While writing, I find longing and fill my wounds with ink. My libido, my drive for skin and intimacy, is often on a long leash—she wanders off and winds herself around trees. I try to walk forward but she yanks; I hear her yapping behind me, sometimes growling for attention. I wish I could untether myself from this desire beast but she is mine and I am her: lone wolf, Shepherd, and lap dog. Writing helps me face the teeth and slobber of my little Bitch, Libido.

What’s
the
inside
scoop
on
your
story?
About
Fern
: I had eaten fiddlehead ferns for the first time while visiting Vermont in early May, prime fiddlehead season. It seemed strange and wonderful, to eat this spiral plant that had not yet unfurled. I was taking a class in sustainable treehouse building at a school called Yestermorrow and the cook had carefully foraged for the edible fiddleheads that are not poisonous for us. We enjoyed them chilled in a balsamic dressing in the common kitchen.

About
Reading
: This poem is based on a real event in which someone I know who is basically kind but who rattles me started talking to me on public transit. I pulled out a book and suggested reading so we wouldn’t have to talk. I had forgotten I’d marked a poem of Louise Glück’s called “Dream of Lust.” We took turns reading aloud and my reading companion proclaimed, “that was great” when we finished. I did kiss her cheek and was charmed that poetry could soften me toward someone I had wanted to dodge. I also wondered if sharing a sexy poem in the public space of a trolley might even turn strangers into lovers.

Reading

Joy West

In the spine

lay the edge of the rectangle

slicing two pages of

DREAM OF LUST, 46-47.

I forgot what I had marked.

We were on the trolley.

Let’s
read
poems
.

I offered

to silence her chatter:

Temp
.
jobs
,
overqualified
for
mailroom
,

and
what
are
your
plans
after
layoff
?

I move to the back,

so does she.

Let’s
read
poems
. She held the right side

and I the left of the hardcover.

Open to Glück’s dream. Aloud, she read:

unexpected animal …

You are ridiculously young
…

People in front but no one turns. This, ours with

…
odd
lumbering
gaucheness

that
became
erotic
grace
.

22nd St., 19th., I rush to finish before City Hall

That
was
great
! she said, hug and

I kiss her cheek. Glance mouth, so close.

the
human
body
a
compulsion
,
a
magnet
.

Indented quotes from Louise Glück “Dream of Lust” in
The
Seven
Ages
, 2001.

Fern

Joy West

I eat Spring.

Fiddleheads. Snap

the spirals. Facing

each other but wound,

they grow shy.

Savor this curl.

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