He Always Thanks Me When I Come

( an erotic double Sonnet )
 
In all my years I never knew a one
Of man or boy that fell in love with me,
Who was polite when after sex was done,
To grateful show how good the act can be.
 
And then I met a man of po’em bent
With virtue for the formula of rhyme.
‘Twas on a Friday on the Internet,
Who showed the art of love, Bob Dylan-time.
 
But how he did, it titillated one;
It was distracting what he did with words.
For cyber-scening he would use his tongue,
O! What it did and what it would prefer.
 
I could stay home and read a book instead
(I’ve life-long strived on being better read).
 
While early on when we were single-O,
I’d listen long to learn about his kink.
He thought I should be free to let him go,
In case I felt the need to change up ink.
 
But life for us proved quite an endless dare
Including learning what each knew of love.
For art of writing is a forte shared,
The ways of which a lover long dreams of.
 
And when I’m there I never need it said,
He’ll lie between & tongue the wetness deep.
He always thanks me when I come in bed,
To gentle nod, and mumble in his sleep.
 
I whisper soft, ‘I should do that to you’.
Of course I will, then I’ll be thankful, too.