deepundergroundpoetry.com
Shirts
It wasn’t woollen
And it wasn’t a shirt
But that’s what she called it.
When she came
She’d arch her taut body
Hauling it upwards
On fistfuls of chest-hair
And subside laughing
At the soft cascade of curls
Gently adhering
To her moist cleavage.
Covering her shoulders
With my evening chemise
She’d waft androgenously off
Into her morning
Without showering.
The day she left
I waxed.
No-one
Would take so much
Of me again.
And worse
She had my shirts.
And it wasn’t a shirt
But that’s what she called it.
When she came
She’d arch her taut body
Hauling it upwards
On fistfuls of chest-hair
And subside laughing
At the soft cascade of curls
Gently adhering
To her moist cleavage.
Covering her shoulders
With my evening chemise
She’d waft androgenously off
Into her morning
Without showering.
The day she left
I waxed.
No-one
Would take so much
Of me again.
And worse
She had my shirts.
Published 17th Apr 2020
Author's Note
A long relationship. She called my chest hair my "shirt" and after making love would dress in nothing but my actual shirt until she was ready to go about her day or night, or whatever But the shirts tended to disappear into her drawers, and turn up again when she chose to unexpectedly seduce me. It turned out that she couldn't be trusted with my shirts. Nor much else.
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18th Apr 2020 8:42am
A glimpse into the relationship.
Funny about her calling chest hair a shirt. Alas, I am a shirtless man (though not lacking body hair elsewhere.....)
Funny about her calling chest hair a shirt. Alas, I am a shirtless man (though not lacking body hair elsewhere.....)
18th Apr 2020 10:15am
