“Dear Diary. Oh boy!” she wrote.
Tom said “Pussy or arse or deep-throat?”
Harry laughed, said “Tough call!”
I said “Fuck! Do ’em all!
Fuckin’ airtight, boys, that’s my damn vote!”
Back seat driver
She sat up, poured herself a reviver.
His come, pussy juice, his saliva
Dripped out of her cunt.
She said “Get back in front.
You can take me home now, thank you, driver!”
Tug-of-love
He would pluck her, he said, the big brute,
Pull her pussy hairs out root by root.
Rip out each screaming follicle!
How diabolical!
Nasty, but bald pussy’s cute!
Life is a cabaret
Just a stripper, but quite the artiste,
She kept time with the music, at least.
“Turn it up,” her boss said,
“Show some pussy instead.
Shake them tits too.” Insensitive beast!
Libidinous angst
She woke up, panting, coming, hot, screaming!
Alone! Had she only been dreaming?
No something more literal!
Visceral! Clitoral!
Living, and being, not seeming!
Tractability
He paused, grunting with dissatisfaction,
Tried changing his angle a fraction.
“Turn over,” he said.
“Scoot your arse down the bed;
A man needs a bit more bloody traction!”
But wear a helmet
Underneath her skirt naked, wet, slick…
She bent down, gave the leather a lick…
Sat astride the hard saddle…
Slip-sliding astraddle…
Rode off… pedal, whir, giggle, click!
Familiarity breeds contempt
Seven years wed, little love lost,
She said “Kiss me.” He said “Have you flossed?”
She said “Yes, and have you
Washed your cruddy cock, too?”
Which she thought quite a decent riposte.
The modern woman
She considered herself rather modern;
Her panties, when worn, often sodden,
The way to her heart,
And that other warm part,
A path easily found and much trodden.
Fill in the gaps
Inaccessible, wrinkled and pleated…
He poked, prodded, gave up defeated.
“For ****’s sake!” he cursed.
“Can I have a look first?
Where’s your damn ****? (Expletives deleted.)