Image for the poem sex for quiet guns

sex for quiet guns

he never told her his name, & didn’t ask for hers;
she was just another fuckable woman.

in the dim motel room, she turned on the radio, dialed up
honky-tonk blues: arms full of punctures & tattoos,
a voice spitting gravel.

kinda funny how he found her in that diner. she leaned back in the booth,
so he could read the fancy script on her vee-neck: I sleep with my guns.
he told her what popped into his head. ‘they keep the lights in this joint
low on purpose, but it looks good on you.’ she grinned, just a little. ‘you
better sit down, before you trip in the dark.’

there wasn’t much need for talk, she knew what he wanted, & he figured
she was okay with that by the way she studied his eyes.

he lingered in the stimulus of her disrobing. a woman always removed
her clothes in a casual way with him, even as he was a stranger. it was
an easy rhythm, & without burlesque

she lay belly down on the bed, as if she knew how he wanted it. her
nipples extended slightly against the cool sheets; she felt the beginning
rain in her yearning tart as his hand rubbed her ass.

her beautiful ass, he thought, as he bent to it. his bites were firm but
not vicious. he kissed her thigh & the back of her knee, blazing a damp
trail along it with his tongue.

she reached under to spread herself, & he drove in smoothly. after moments
of ramming, he felt lubed enough to assault her other, more subdued target.
she groaned as she strained to open herself for his brutal thickness. she
thought she couldn’t stand it, she wanted him to stop, & a moment later,
she wanted him not to.

he rode hard for an outlaw’s heaven, uttering obscenities, holding out for as
long as he could. finally, all the white-fire passion in his gut erupted in a
violent deluge. she cried as she felt his thundering rivers filling her insides
entirely, & her euphoria was complete.

…as she slept, he got into his jeans & pulled on his boots, scuffed with miles
of bad road. the night was warm, so he threw his soiled t-shirt over his
shoulder. before he left, he dropped three twenties on the dresser, by her bag.
she was worth that much…

(Art: Stephane Coutelle)

Written by JohnFeddeler
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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