Friday, April 17, 2009


In the sexxx shoppe, even the air is tinsly,
hot around the racks of spandex and plastic.
Two grunge girls with tie-dyed hair dance,
shove dirty dice and a single
red condom into their lover’s fawn palm.
He counters with fistfuls of emotion
lotion pillow packs, showers them golden
with pleasure chest condom coins.
Their broomstick skirts swirl around him
shrieking like the drunken streets of Marseilles.

Fat chest churling tsunami waves,
a redhead giggles in giant gulps
as she ripples through the aisles,
smoothes her eyes across nubby toys.
She is sugar cookie dough
scraped from the bowl with fingers,
determined not to go home alone
any more Saturday nights;
she oozes her breasts onto glass,
a display seen from all sides.

A buck toothed brunette prods her mate
with Max Arouse and a jock
pops his friend with a Christmas g-string.
They’ve never been dirty before and wonder why.

Dipping her head into notes of jazz
hung heavy on the line,
the sales girl is truly a honey.
Seeing her composure, each of us
is electric with hope, craves static.

A forty-something man grabs a stick
with a penis molded from hand-tinted
chocolate for his wife’s birthday,
maybe thinks of her soft butterscotch voice
as he waits to pay. For her alone,
his arms are full of batteries and desire.

by Ayara Stein

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Anonymous George Sassyass said...

an instant classic. I feel deliciously dirty.......

10:30 AM  

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