Fists have split my lips and still I would choose their kiss over yours. The prospect of your lips grazing mine scares me more than the idea of tasting a punch. Your lips, Thicker than blood and much more personal. I can imagine your tongue’s expert precision as it snakes it’s way into my mouth, meshing saliva and sexuality in the ritualistic courtships of intimacy.
Your sins are a flavor I know without having to taste them. Yours is a lust I savor, bringing about the exploration of bodies and boundaries. As moans escape me in gasps and pants, little secrets of the night betraying my nervous excitement, know this is not my first courtship. I know you.
You are the Black Magic Woman Santana wailed on his guitar about. You, Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl.
You are otherworldly and timeless. A visage, continuously sought after by many longing desperately to learn the secret language rolling off your tongue like spanish r’s.
Boys, men and every degree of masculinity in between vies for your adoration and affections. The suitors lined up, for your inspection of adequacy, both phallic and emotionally. Your sharp red nails, digging line after line of glorious pain from their backs, bringing them to the point of exposing their tender Adam’s Apple to you, ripe for the plucking.
You brought Samsonite to his knees and David to your balcony.
Dressed as Audrey Hepburn, you captivate like Marilyn Monroe’s demise; only twice as deadly.
I have seen your many forms and I am not the first.
The poison coated to your lips brought Marc Anthony to his knees. You brought the wrath of Agamemnon onto Troy, Helen. Cities, built and burned in your name, Aphrodite.
Your different names drip like honey from lips around the world.
As your lips find their way to my nape, I will continue to remember I am not the first boy to wanderlust his way to your den. No, the footprints clearly remain visible, all heading forward, none returning. Their different sizes measured against each other. Strong men reduced to little remnants at your whim. Nothing more than footprints in the dirt.
Like fever to the form, my journey will not end in stitched up hearts and broken dreams. For you cannot and will not enrapture me as those before me. I am not captivated by your voodoo charm. Since the whispers on the wind of your existence found their way to my ear, I have prepared to face you. I have readied myself, learning step by step how to lead and not be led.
That is not to say I never found you enticing. Quite the opposite, I spent many late nights in deep meditation, infatuated with the thought of my hand sliding down the spine of your bare back before making it’s way to hold your hip for balance lest I lose myself falling and crashing into you. My hand on your cheek, holding you in my possession, tender and strong. Late nights turning to early mornings, one rapturous moan at a time. Caged lips, unleashing animalistic howls as the sun comes up.
You will not take me though. No, not I. For those were the imaginations of a boy and I have run the gauntlet of the real world. I have experienced loss in it’s most soul-crushing, puddle-inducing manner. I will not be taken by the temptress. At least not on the Sirens terms.
I know you offer sweet bountiful release. I also know the havoc and destruction your ecstasy skips hand in hand with. Your enchantment written passionately in ink and blood.
If the scriptures written in sanguine fluid about you are true, then I know you.
Love, you hit harder than a fist. All it takes is a kiss.
Briton Underwood, better known as Punk Rock Papa, is a parent above all else. When he gets sick of being at their beck and call, he likes to escape to his page or site. He writes about any and everything he wants, but mainly about his twin boys or his newest addition- another boy. He also would like the world to know he has a beautiful wife, because the couch isn’t that comfy.