Things to recall with your cock in my mouth

There’s sucking dick,
and there’s giving head.

There’s an art to good head
and,
motherfucker,
you’ve put me through the master class.

I used to be Bob Ross,
with a happy little erection in my mouth,  
and now...
after you
with your goddamn hands in my hair,
I realize that I’m
the Dali of cocksuckers.

I’m bleeding nightmares
in your apathetic lap
while your eyes
roll back
and you pray for the
walls to start
melting before
you jack those hips
and shove yourself
deeper down my throat
and  my porn star eyes
look up
and you forget to
die at the sight of  
my prom queen  
mouth stretched
by your girth.

I like that moment.
Because I can sort of take it easy
a little reflexive swallowing maybe,
and count the hooker-red
lipstick rings,
the endless shades of
other bitches,
who gobbled your meat
because you can twist
a phrase the way
a good poetic slut --
strike that,
like I --
can twist my tongue around
a throbbing stick.  

And, I like the way
my baby-doll bubblegum pink
gloss reflects the light
on the red-stained canvas of your cock.

While you’re too sensitive to be touched.
When you’re too sated to want to be.
When you’re too damn used to having
the smell of you in my,
my
hair as soon as you reach for your belt,
and it’s just too much effort to pull it out
anymore,

I can pull back.

No. Fucking. Worries.

I can pull back.

Because you learn that in
the master class, too,
don’t you

babe.

I’m going to turn around,
smiling,
leave you to pull up
your own pants,
my
index finger wiping the
corner of my mouth,
and running it inside my lips,
tasting the hot salt of you,  

as my other hand reaches for
the tube of gloss,
and I wonder
what

screamscape

I’ll paint next.