Under His Gaze -- a short, comedic short short

NOT ALL EROTICA IS CREATED EQUAL...

The glow in his eyes, the depth of his gaze…

I felt vulnerable under that gaze just now, exposed, as if I was naked.

For a moment, nothing else existed in the world.

“What if I say a no?” I asked him, trying not to sound intimidated by his proximity.

He stepped closer to me. 

One more move, and he would be over me. 

Ride me, his eyes said.

Could he see my face flushed?

He smiled and made a playful grab for my hair. 

I crossed my arms over my face.

His head bobbed up and down. His lips moved but he did not kiss me; no words were spoken. He never said a single word, except with his eyes or a tilt of his head. 

But, I always understood him. I always knew what he wanted.

He wanted me to ride him?

Okay.

I would.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Falling onto the Highway of Life

©Falling onto the Highway of Life

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I woke up this morning

to the sound of someone’s car tires

on the overheated road;

it made me think of Indian fry bread

and how it sounds

being dropped in the hot oil.

In the desert, there’s a cowgirl

who wakes up each morning

with a funny taste in her head;

yes, something tastes different—

maybe it’s her tongue—

suddenly, she’s not so young.

There is a dancing maiden

who loves a masochist,

but the fire in her dance

comes from a bird singing

in the folds of low clouds;

she sticks the bird in her lover’s ear.

The shape of your eyes

is like a lasso around my heart;

your dance echoes of

a covey at dawn and romantic

road trips; our hair intertwined;

no space for breath between us.

There’s an aged couple

watching dried butterflies rise

over a landscape of stranded ships;

neither sleeps unless together

because the boy and girl they were

are no longer waiting.

I love the way you call me Baby;

and you love the way

I say “good morning”;

we’ve said it before,

“open the door, get on your

bike, and take me the way I am”.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Quid Pro Quo

©Quid Pro Quo

Mimi Wolske

Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™

October 2014

All Rights Reserved

  

Maybe I have law enforcement genes;

I can't walk passed a bakery

without drooling (read: buying) donuts.

There are red marks on my waist.

I've become the kink,

discombobulated,

in the chain of sidewalk fashion

with their flowing dresses,

rolling briefcases, and

good posture and leanness.

My pants are too tight.

It's only ten pounds,

people say in soothing, melodic tones

while whispering behind my back

and laughing: Ohmygod! Twenty pounds! At least!

Skinny jeans and tight T-shirts come in packs;

don't judge me! I prefer my chocolate extra dark.

Bag of groceries splits from the weight;

brie and cream pies and sweet rolls spill;

I trip on the curb rushing to gather them up

as a handsome, expensive suit turns the corner,

turns into me. We both jump apart;

he with athletic ease and grace;

me like a shoved, dressed hog

precariously balanced on one foot.

I contaminate his expensive press job

with my bulging blue jeans

and my rumpled, oversized sweater.

He offers me a lethal smile;

I proffer him a sweet roll—

quid pro quo.