"Conquest"
c.2000, Miriam M. WynnFabric is taut over hidden skin--
You are always cloaked in layers;
And even as I sniff to get in
You deny me, as ever impenetrable.It isn't fair,
This coveredness, this hot, warm length of you
Wrapped, tailored, lined.
My fingers keep tracing your buttons and lapels and clasps,
And your belt is pretty much the summit.I think you get a kick out of denying me,
It's like playing Marco Polo,
And I think it's cruel but instead of quitting
My fingers persist at getting at you.I think you're a devil,
You smile a little when my fingers get into your pockets,
And maybe--something--
And I close my eyes and control a moan
At the heat coming from your trousers.
At this central point of you
Things are steaming
But everywhere else you are cold cold cold.And I wonder what it must feel like
To have these little hands poking and sliding
All over you,
Am I like a pet, some puppy maddened by the scent of meat,
Or am I a nuisance thousands of red ants intent on stinging you?You never let me in, so I wonder
What's the point of letting me near you like this,
Why don't you push me away or say something?But never--
And your belt refuses to budge,
Your arms are nonchalant at your sides and
I look up at you with so much weary adoration.
Desire is an exhausting thing
But you offer me no help.Sometimes I search other men
But their clothes offer no resistance;
They don't smell the same way and besides,
You're the nut I haven't cracked.And then I'm back to you,
Accosting you in corridors,
Your eyes heavy-lidded,
Your face betraying nothing but that little smile
And it's more than I can stand.You're a bastard, but I want you ...
And hopefully if I crack these clothes
You'll be the only one for me.