©When First They Met,
she threw her suitcase on the bench,
threw propriety out the fucking door;
fear blending with desire in her throat,
she unfurled what was tightly coiled
for days and then hours on the plane.
He traveled across the room
with an air of authority,
turned, and sat in the provided chair,
legs spread in a V that pointed
to that part of him painfully growing.
Stripping bare at his command,
eyes closed, a nervous smile
plastered as though botoxed
in that obvious state,
she began a dance to the music,
hips swaying, not gyrating, gently,
slowly, in time with a stripper beat.
Heavy breasts marked an aching rhyme,
lower lip between her teeth,
it was then an inner beat,
a primal flash deep from within,
moved forcefully, sensuously.
She took over the room.
It was all or nothing,
answers without any questions,
when she swayed toward
the empty chair, into his arms.
Music quelled but her thrumming
continued as he made the room
and her quake on noisy bed springs.
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