Two Poems

Blow Jobs

You’d get more protein from the average egg;
the taste’s a tepid, watery nothingness –
skimmed milk? weak coffee? puréed cucumber?

Fellation’s not a woman’s idea of fun.
Just doing it as foreplay is OK.
You kiss me, I’ll kiss you’s a quid pro quo –
but carrying on until the buggers come –
suck, suck, suck, suck for half a bloody hour!
(I haven’t timed it but it feels that way.)

There’s nothing in the act for us. Our mouths
are better stimulated by a kiss.
The sucked lie back (with beatific smiles),
forget our bodies in their private dreams,
while we grow cold, detached, unloved, untouched,
our heads like 3-D sporrans on their groins,
bored out of mind, with aching jaws and cheeks,
like kids that Santa gave a plastic flute,
still trying to get a tune on Boxing Day.

‘Toothless George’ sucked all comers to the rocks
in a secluded Jersey cove each June.
(He’d come from Blackpool for his yearly treat.)
Men love the act, sucking and being sucked.
Most women wish they’d keep it to themselves.

Bed Time

Sex in the afternoon is always good –
it’s honest lust, not lodgings for the night –
no one’s too drunk or tired to manage it.

The afternoon’s discreet, ambiguous,
a time when no excuses need be made.
Each enjoys each – they know as they are known.
There’s no concealment – daylight’s always on.
And when it’s time to leave, the night’s still young –
home, food, TV all wait – and best of all,
the peace of being alone in your own bed.
Solitary sleep’s less disillusioning.

Night sex is often far less pleasurable –
a tired, furtive, fumbling in the dark.
Objective vision comes with morning’s light.
(I have the knack of always waking first.)
I dreamed of friends but find a stranger there –
his mouth gapes snoring wide; yesterday’s style –
the careful, blow-dried cut – is now on end;
one duvet-clutching hand has dirty nails;
and, something ludicrous, the modest sod’s
managed to get his pants back on in bed.
He wakes and things get worse. I must wipe off
the grin those pants inspired and try to talk.

The in-built problem with a one-night stand
is how to handle things after you’ve slept.
How many lovers’ moods are synchronised?
An early-morning surliness in one
undoes everything tender done or said.
I’d advocate pre or post-breakfast fucks
to show continuance of last night’s desire –
proof positive that neither has regrets.