An Ode to the Male Orgasm

From a lukewarm evening in August
the heels are sore and
I shed my clothes – I can finally breathe.
To that lone moment in the warm eve
we can collide as equals.
With sweet drinks lingering on tongues
we can explore each other’s souls,
hearts beating out of time.
My body aches knowingly for him
and the world outside his door
no longer exists. Knocks come
and go, but we remain undisturbed
in hot darkness, fumbling
and gasping all the same.
His skin flushed pink and warm
I lay my soft palms down
on his chest, his stomach and hips.
Like a forbidden mistress
I am in control; he comes undone,
a bow tugged loose by a single string.
This is to his sweet, calloused knuckles
that turn white and twist.
Those rare sounds that he sings
and trembling fingers that tug slowly.
Hazy and lustful orbs that gaze
longingly, watching me carefully.
Each kiss becomes a tongue-twister
I find myself giggling at his demands
for more and more –
he is but a greedy angel.
It isn’t until he holds his breath
and a light fills the air; he joins the stars
for only a moment before he comes
back. My body swells with pride;
his soul quivers as the Earth
takes him back.

[Author’s Note: I wrote this back in 2018 for my university class, and I figured since we are nearing Valentine’s Day, I should publish this! Not in keeping with my usual style, but I quite like this one. Men Deserve Love Too. — Ellen]

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