David Centorbi

Such A Gorgeous Dying

Cigarette smoke hazing over your face, Clove. 
Sex smell because of you—sheets wet all over.
I remember our first time together:

“I never knew about that,” I said.
You pushed my face between your legs. 
Sweet, the taste of you, no longer a cliche.
You held me in your hand, slow and loose. 
Then fast until I came all over your stomach. 
You looked down, slid your finger through it, 
brought it to your lips. Then kissed me.   

“I’m just going a little longer,” you said,
rolling over, fingers tracing circles
between your legs.

I laid next to you and watched.
Then, startling me, you sat up 
and straddle my face. 
“Let me see those bastard eyes,” you moaned. 
And came, covering my face, wet. 

“Give me your tongue.”
And you pressed yourself against it.
“You’re such a good boy,” you said
as you grabbed my hair and brought
me harder against you.
“Taste all of me. I want you to have it all.”  

You pushed my head away by my hair:
a hot, hard stream hit my face,
and I couldn’t help but open my mouth,
just a bit, and swallow.   

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