An invitation to tea and fucking (but mostly fucking)

Shut up and fuck me already.

Don’t get all poetic
because we’ll end up
using pretty words and
thinking deep thoughts,
just drop your goddamn pants
around your ankles because

I want to fuck.

I want you
to need to be in me,
to sweat at the thought
of the expanding
damp spot on my
white-lace panties,
a spot which magically appeared when
you walked in the door
and made eye contact with me;
and my eyes said,
"meet me around the corner,"
because

I want to fuck.

I need you to get the shakes,
and have to quell yourself with a stiff drink
when I whisper that I’m so fucking
slick with need, that I feel like a satin glove,  
that you’d slide in me
like a flaming sword through ice cream
because

(and I really can’t express this enough, you know)

I want.

To.

Fuck.

And you should be at
risk of blowing your load
like a kid when we grapple against
the wall and you almost trip over your pants
while my left leg is curled around your waist
bringing you closer,
our mouths at war,
our bodies battling;
you swear in determination
as I come instantly on you
and you refuse to give in that fast
killing us both,
and rewriting
language in the process,
our names now verbs,
now poetry or porn
or something in-between.

I just want to
Fuck. You.
Now.

I’m reasonably sure
that’s not too much to ask.