Ever had an itch you just couldn't satisfy? Maybe you'll relate to this poem.
An itch to be scratched -
A lust unmatched -
An empty bed -
"Let's go!" she said.
And on the summer's afternoon
we loved until we saw the moon.
Exhausted, laying there exposed
upon my belly, I proposed
she scratch my back to top it off -
and soon she did, so soft, so soft.
Nails as sharp as 'Wiltshires' creep
like slugs upon a compost heap
across my sweaty skin until
I feel an itch she can't quite kill.
"Just up a bit." She hears me say.
"Down a bit...the other way.
Up a tad. You've gone askew.
Slide across a touch or
A little harder. Damn it! Swat it!
Keep going, yes, you've almost got it.
Listen woman, can't you tell.
You're nowhere near it. Bloody Hell!”
I fling my body in the air
and land atop the carpet bare
Grinding hard upon my back
searching for a pointy tac
to give me what I really need -
a decent scratch that makes me bleed
Bewildered, she is staring down,
as losing it, I go to town.
Raising up my back, I arch it,
slamming hard down on the carpet.
My body parts are flicking, hectic,
like I'm turning epileptic.
A book! A knife! A nice high heel!
Give me something I can feel
But suddenly, like when it reared,
my itch just vanished...disappeared.
I rose, so pleased, my love to tell
and found that she was gone as well.
The door was slammed, the lock was latched.
Our race was run...and I was scratched!
Copyright; Marco Gliori