Victor Pierce

Mixology

Tiki lights color
the darkish room,
meant for drinking,
not dining.

She saunters in,
glitter on her face,
heels on her shoes,
nothing else
but a lewd smile.

Jazz music amplifies,
background and
foreground.

Curves ample and
glorious intoxicate me.
She selects a
martini glass
from the vintage bar.

She bends down to
the hardwood floor,
positioning
the crystal chalice
in its customary place.

She squats over it,
neon toenails visible
through platforms that
support voluptuousness
divine.

Shimmering eyes 
leer at me, 
my vermouth and
olive at the ready.

Her fingers 
massage her clitoris,
our eyes locked,
our mouths speechless.

Until her hips writhe.
Until her lips open.

Whimpers wax
moans wax
screams.

Torrents wave.
The gash gushes.

Sated, she stands
unsteadily, handing me
the brimming glass,
ready to be cocktailed.

Happiest of hours.
Effluence imbibed.
I thirst no more.