Slippery SlopeI just NEED my slippery slope—a girl, too pretty, too cute, too innocent— this being haphazardly hazardous to my abstinence. She smiles, she cries, she’s alive, and she, nor I, mean to make us skid—closer and closer to our sexuality. But down her slope, I’m made to coast. Her sweet kisses and wishes without agenda, making her tip like a cliff. Down her body I’m destined to end up—chin, to neck, to breasts, to belly, to my sweetheart’s pit—physically slippery— as if her love and beauty had not already slid me to my climactic fate.Slippery Slope by IdeaEngineer
Overcoming ShynessShe has no mechanism for resistance toward the man who can prove himself to her. She is defenseless toward her own heart, its dial set to bond. Shyness is her nature’s only mode of protection. She falls in love easily, but only the man who pursues her relentlessly, yet tenderly, could ever hope to reap the reward of her nature. Her heart is a diary full of beautiful things, longing to be opened, ready to benefit the beholder. But shyness is the lock which she foolishly despises. She is so true, that she can hardly speak without reading from her diary. Timidity guards her intimate material. But the man who pursues her realizes this: that shyness would not exist if not that she possessed something worth protecting.Overcoming Shyness by IdeaEngineer
The man will confront the clasp of her diary before its pages. Her shyness forces her to sit back and watch as her suitor works at the lock, picking at it slowly with gestures of trustworthiness and tenderness as his tools. Meanwhile, he will surround her constantly with
CodigoShe and my body speak a language beyond me.Codigo by IdeaEngineer
She puts her lips to my ear, but the transference is of breath and wet crackles.
I respond with moans and short movements forced through paralyzation.
It’s a reply I feel, but hardly comprehend.
In private, I have put my hand to my ear, and the other places she speaks to.
I feel my skin on my skin, but my body does not answer.
Her hands and my thighs have a mutual understanding.
Her tongue and my neck share a cypher.
Flesh of self-command has been whisked into affair with an alternate intelligence.
Signals from my own mind are blocked by third-party affection.
I am disabled,
squirming as negotiations ensue,
knowing not what I say with grunts and breath, “Mmm”, and “yea”;
knowing only that by our compatible encryptions, we are alike in our carnal essence.