Les Preludes

Foreplay: The Overture



First look with admiration – uh,

that was before – now?

no, evaluation of possibilities.



You disrobed all raiment

intrusive to naked “I” of you.



Gee, what changed since first look:

voracious appetite for the new –

different size of everything:

how fingers know the different span

softer touch – firmer?

more protrusive nipples?

lips will know the difference –

harder, narrow base –

more so the reaction to gentle sucking

curled tongue squeezed between lips clamped

around that pyramid of neurons

making mirror more of you

like yesterday’s deja vu.



But, you beckoned to the shower first

hot water, steam blasting open pores

slammed shut with sudden cold

soap sudsing all itself tango tantalizing

down the drain with what is truly

odoriferous essence of you.



Towel-less, you spread

your eagle self across the bed

wings extended.

I nestle in that arm and body crease

inhaling scent of body wash

deep gasps of pungency release

my inhibitions in the nest of your embrace.



My self I place not face to face

but lie beside you – patient, playful

nibbling neck with passion bites

break not the skin nor

deep purple color leave beneath

as if a brute had beaten brutally

your precious self.



The sensitive spots like minefields sown

await the feather touch exciting

muscles strained, like minefields blown

legs twitching begging gap between

be filled with drive shaft turning

itself engorged to all your yearning

to be satisfied.



But, I don’t – yet

till you burning get

flushed, gushed, wet.



Now, we can begin

the main scene of



The Play



You turned

as if burned

opened mouth

gasping

lips grasping

like hands

for a tourniquet.



Mine plunged to yours

locking suction

vacuum sealed

CPR effect

tongues dancing

salivary tango

sucking both our breaths away.



The overture bled into Act One

led to moto perpetuo

ceaseless rhythm

neurons screaming

relief

coming

slowly

fingers slowly probing

spreading outer

inner lips apart at once

clitoral tongue tip

lapping

musical vibrato

dancing tips

of fingers on the strings

feeling every rising note

violin playing

concerto of love

vulva chamber

orchestra

you all my instruments

I sole conductor

baton

still in your willing hand.

                                                 

Ripetivo di nuovo





First Movement: Allegro, ma non troppo



How Suite the Music is.



Absorption up and down and all around.



New overture, crescendo –

Ravel’s Bolero should do

you prostrate lie waiting

for hot liquid balm

pressed smoothly

nape to Achilles heel

not yet the storm

until the steamy calm

presiding o’er the candle-lit boudoir

Cupid’s resurrection

wax slowly seeping down

erected shafts of paraffin

blinking

shadows dancing

every wall engaged

this minuet of love

begun

ejaculated cream oozed tube to hand

white marble stream

oyster champagne flow

rubbed into palm to palm

laid warm upon your dormant back

squirting bursts caught dripping, slow

from leaking tip

drop by luscious drop

rubbed rhythmically

through creases, valleys,

muscular mounds

stretched tautly

concentric circles

even pressure pushing gently

through the pores and portals

through the Venus veins

where lying in most inner chamber

your hot burning heart remains.



I straddled you

still dripping

slipping on your slimy

slopes in syncopated

slice of pulsing tempo

nape to tight trapezius, , ,



Second Movement: Andante e Minuetto 



The Waxing and Waning



Candles still flickered,

wax still dripped,

slowly reshaping patterns

etched on stalagmites



         rising like mine



awaiting spelunker’s goal:

cavern’s entrance

momentarily closed.

to all.



The avalanche did not subside –

I spread the pulsing walls apart

the point guard entering inside

protective muscles flexing –

oft relaxing

warmed by hot breath

sighs exhaled

as voiceless tongue wet with eagerness

struck

flicking non-toxic saliva

as its lubricant

like niter in Poe’s catacombs

sucking it out

as easy as the breath of life

fills sleeping child

fills sleeping child

fills sleeping child

minute by agonizing minute

deep and shallow sighs

of her dream-filled night --

of his dream-filled night.



Long lower limbs lay

twitching with anticipation.



Strong hands grasped and loosened grips

a heart in either hand feeding tissue

with lovers’ fond embrace.



I turned you  face to face –

ventral side  another side to do,

jerking with anticipation.



Third Movement: Allegro con Brio 



The Ventral Side



Old candles flicker

black wicks protruding

from their seas of wax

new ones awaiting sentry posts

dancing shadows playing tag

on bedroom walls.          



Your eyes stay closed

not to disturb dumb night

mute witness to euphoric

bath of heated cream

on Venus in celestial bed.



From temples crossing

seamless brow

concentric circles

curl themselves

with velvet sheen

slight smile urging

whispered secrets

escaping slightly parted lips

exhaling momentary gasps

of senseless words

that mingle love and lust

in banquet portions

of poetic verse.

Upper limbs hung limply

dangle

careless witness to the process

plying pressure points

evoking pleasure groans

unheard but by Adonis

hovering cloudlike

loving mist

over torso

draped just in sweet sweat

ambrosial nectar

Olympic juices drenching navel plains.



Finale: Allegretto Brilliante



The Entrance of the Gods into Valhalla



Conductor:

I, a Curt Masseur, took podium

by your side, baton in hand,

a delicate vibrato virtuoso touch

as metronome of mind and fingers

played your strings, your harp,

bore down on trumpet buttons

as deftly as on john’s the strumpet

pushed to make her play, him pay

for just the minute waltz –

but, she an opera in the works

an opus, like French horn in hand

thrust through the bell, and clarinet,

sweet timbre like a sexy-phone –

all instruments are attuned to you

lying in the candle-scented boudoir

in the naked essence who you are.



Below the plains lies the all leg grotto

where grows the scented bush

where rose’s petals ope and close

as evening’s nocturne blows with winds

and reeds resound to meter beat of timpani

in this concert of love’s symphony,

a suite, of solo artist entering where only

gods once entered through the haloed halls

where crowned is aura of your artistry.



Like swirling maelstrom, clashing rocks,

no many-headed Scylla threatening

at the mouth of cave, conductor waved baton

on downbeat upswing

probed within the ivory walls

slow introduction faster than Bizet

less vocal than the Orffean great

of orgiastic Fortuna fame

nor let out loud soprano scream

as entered I with warming cream

like slide trombone’s long fluid shaft

pre-decorating your art, your craft

with my cadenza, the orchestra

awaiting long its cue from you.

It came in perfect harmony

in arias of you and me.



The Coda



All candles flickered final flames

blinking out of their existence

just a blazing spark, last gasp

before the darkness shut their eyes

blind witness to this practiced process

prompted by impromptu form,

this music interlude,

this calm before the storm.