Tuesday, 8 September 2009

back of the sofa

Fumbling on your parents sofa, super keen
oh what it was, to be an excitable teen
unbuttoning clothes with trembling fingers
every bit of new flesh in my mind it lingers.

Bra unclapsed, thats second base conquered
time to head for third as I move southward
my sweaty hand is on the inside of her knee
no complaints yet, carry on we both agree.

Trembling, I swallow, my hand trundles on
slipping about, her legs? Are coated in teflon?
Like a old frieght train through the night
unstoppable with it's lusty teenage might.

Beads of exasperated sweat form on my head
like that itchy bomb disposable expert Fred,
my fingers gingerly frolick about blind,
with my inexpierence she doesnt seem to mind.

At last! fingertip presses against something,
plural somethings, that seem to be jingling?!?!
Frozen pause, tentative fingers, precision touch,
Whats this? It all seems a bit too much.

Seem to find more, pulling my hand down
I've found some coins, and a pen leads to a frown
More wild tongue snogging and some more frantic digging
Yields only a 9 volt battery, rusting.

My hand reaches further, what more will I retrieve?
Completely turned off, she ups and asks me to leave
confused and freaked out, left in a trauma,
Relieved, it turns out Ive had my hand down the back of the sofa.

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