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Lyrotica An Anthology of Erotic Poetry and Prose Table of Contents Foreword ~ Rebecca Ammon Blowing Off Steam ~ Shanya Wright Gilded Cage Smacks of Sanctuary ~ Dennis Mahagin Fertility Goddess ~ William J. Jackson Limits~ Michael Bayer He Tells Me That I’m Beautifool ~ Adriana Páramo It’s Academic ~ Don Kunz Rolling in the Grass ~ Milan Smith The Tension Between ~ Laura LeHew A Portrait of Venus ~ Ran Walker Blazing Aphrodite ~ Richard Godwin love poem ~ Tetman Callis Winter Solstice, As the Sun Goes Down ~ Rachael Z. Ikins Make Room for Mary ~ Christopher K. Miller The Loft ~ Cynthia J. Long IV ~ Stephanie Dinkmeyer Oxymora ~ Laurence W. Thomas Tonight Will Be Fine ~ Louise Blaydon Transfer ~ Darci Dawn Sexing the Joy ~ Sara Basrai Sign Language ~ Len Kuntz Inches ~ Delia Tramontina Possibility ~ Jeremy Edwards Letting Go ~ Imari Shi Scene Three ~ Judy Shepps Battle On the Potter’s Wheel ~ Sami Schalk Not Another Balcony Scene ~ Lisa Kawall The Rite of Spring ~ Dieter P. Bieny Kisses ~ Murray Shelmerdine Friday Afternoon ~ John Tustin Put Down ~ Maxine Marsh A Quiet Italian Dinner For Two. ~ Essemoh Teepee Wow ~ Natalia Blair Pour Homme ~ Ian J. Morgan Snapshots ~ Daniel Burnell The Intimacy Tablets ~ Heller Levinson Silence ~ Graham Buchan In Spite of His Dangling Pronoun ~ Lyn Lifshin Vegas Vixen ~ j brooke


Foreword Rebecca Ammon

Lyrotica. The word rolls off my tongue as a carnal innuendo reaching the depths of my innermost sensual being. I define my own carnal presence as an energy created inside my body. My vitality is bound inside my outward ordinary behavior, creating a heat that continually fights to get out. Without a physical encounter, I find myself lost for the translation of my desires. What will I do to express my need? Sometimes the product of my pent-up desires ends as the words I provide to the world through my blog. Writing my thoughts is an extension of myself, my life, my being, that sadly remains a hidden secret behind my ordinary façade. Laura LeHew writes “there’s a psychosomatic cloud over her head—and everyday it rains desire.” Throughout this erotic literature you will find yourself drifting away in your desires, imagination and fantasy that has been bestowed upon you by the storytellers hidden within the lines of this text. Poetry and lyrical translation of love, emotion, and desire dominate the pages to bring you to near ecstasy at times. While I have never been shy about expressing my wants and needs, I found have myself encapsulating my desire as each page turned literally on the edge of explosion at times. Lost in the words before me. My life is full of sexual innuendos, explicit rants, and indecisive ramblings that have led me to a life out of the ordinary. I am not alone in the world of erotica, but I am one of the few who presents it via life experience. And for those who cannot, or will not, live their lives against the societal norm, I have brought you a peek into my crazy world. Through the words of this expressive manuscript, expect to find yourself swept away momentarily to a place not far from your dreams and quite possibly far, far away from your real life. Similarly to my own manuscript of life, the pages before you express an anthology of poetry and prose so sexually arousing, you won’t be able to put it down. Take your time, take a moment with closed eyes to fully envision the scenario laid out, and with each word taste the sweetness, savor the feeling. Let yourself go.


Blowing Off Steam Shanya Wright

The airship floated out of Waterloo station. Victoria stood at the window, waving goodbye, long after they were enveloped by the misty fog. Finally, she dragged her travel box to her seat and sat down. The mill would be chaos with one person short, but she couldn’t ignore the frisson of excitement coursing through her as the airship rumbled up and into the unknown. The thrumming of the engine and the vibrations of the seat sent a tingle through her thighs. Alone in the compartment, and aware that she had hours of boredom to contend with before she reached Paris, she closed her eyes and relinquished herself to daydreams. She imagined that she was alone, riding a mechanical stallion galloping across alongside the Thames at full speed. Her hands clenched as she imagined holding onto the chains, keeping herself steady as the beast raced forward. She tightened her thighs around the smooth, welded back of the horse and allowing the vibrating metal to press right against her. She opened her eyes, a slight flush on her face. There was no one to be seen. Her luggage was on the seat next to her, blocking any direct view of her body from the aisleway. She rearranged herself, watching the glass doorway as she pulled the back of her long skirt up behind her so that she remained covered in front but with nothing but the taut stretch of her lace underwear against the vibrating leather seat. Then she leaned her head back and closed her eyes again. The regular rhythm of the steam engine caused the soft leather to rub against her, and she squirmed in frustration. If only she could somehow press harder or get more direct contact to the vibration. She edged her fingers under the side of the skirt, keeping her arm in the shadow of her clothes box, until she felt her fingertips reach her uncovered thighs. Her eyes flew open — how could she even consider such a thing? The conductor could come through at any minute and see her pleasuring herself like a rutting beast. Victoria tugged her skirt over her lap almost violently and turned to look out the window. They’d left behind the constant gray covering of the farmlands, and she could see glimpses of the English Channel through the breaks in the cloud. Thinking about geography lessons did her no good; her nipples were rock-hard and pressing against her corset uncomfortably. Maybe the conductor wouldn’t mind. Maybe he would stride in and then pause as he took in the situation. She imagined him taking in her flushed face and then his eyes dropping to her rumpled skirt. Perhaps he would step forward with a small smile, slowly so as not to startle her, his eyes locked to hers. Victoria pressed her forehead against the cool, smooth window as she envisioned the scene. As he reached the seat in front of her, he would pause and swallow hard. She would encourage him with a smile. He would move the box from the seat next to her, sit down and slowly reach his hand to her face, drawing his finger along her jaw line. Victoria’s mouth opened at the thought, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. She could almost feel his finger following the curve of her neck and down her chest to her cleavage. Her breath caught in her throat as she imagined his rough hands reaching her erect nipple.


Limits Michael Bayer

The first time Maria Velez touched me was like a beautiful bullet in my chest. The tips of her fingers rested on me — innocently, I thought — while she smiled with quiet consideration of my new feelings. My blood was pumping in unison with the slow-motion beat of the sea outside, where her warm body had sailed the cold tide into my arms just an hour earlier. She tried to slow the current of my blood. She moved her hand to stroke my arm, then my shoulder, and then reached with her other hand to tickle my belly. I remember jerking back with a giant laugh, but not so far back that she couldn’t quickly revisit my chest with the same tempestuous need. She made me laugh again, and laughed with me, and her wide Spanish eyes glistened and pled in the morning air that poured in through all the open windows. They kept all the windows and doors open to welcome nature; the house was a tavern for the elements. The waves churned outside and in my head, and the fog from the shoreline surged and greeted us at the windowsills, thick like mischievous storm clouds. The fog surrounded my head, producing a weak daze, and when it finally dissipated, there was Maria Velez with her big, brown eyes and big, pink lips in an open, half-moon shape, presenting a moist cushion for my arousal. She leaned in and sucked on my lips, not closing her eyes for even a second, but instead connecting her eyelashes to my own and laughing silently. To her, laughter was passion.


He Tells Me That I’m Beautifool Adrianna Paramaro Some people travel abroad to find themselves. I’m not one of them. I came to Haiti to forget who I am: the living proof that the Creator has a perverse sense of humor, the walking evidence that there is not such a thing as intelligent design. I am a middle-aged woman covered in dark blotches, skin discolorations, and bulges that look like tiny elephants pushing their way through my surface. That’s why I came to Haiti. A forgotten woman on a forgotten island. It has a ring to it. People I knew thought I was crazy for choosing Haiti as my holiday destination. They said it’s poor, barren, dangerous. My books corroborated this but also talked about hidden paradises and pieces of a seventh heaven spread on the island. It was crazy not to explore. Not to venture out into the ugly in order to find the magnificent. It has been two weeks since I arrived, and Haiti is everything promised and more. Every evening before the sunsets, I go out for long beach walks. People see me, but my condition doesn’t seem to repel them. Nobody laughs, mothers don’t grab hold of their terrified children, and children don’t point their fingers at me. One day, the Haitians are blind, the next day they are indifferent. I think they are both. Or maybe, physical beauty doesn’t rank high in the heart of the malnourished. The sun is beginning to set, leaving orange circles on the ocean. My feet sink into the warm, powdery sand, cradling each of my toes, making me light. The sea gulls and the smell of seaweed are my only companions. That is until I hear a voice that says, “Hey beautifool.” Surprised, I look over my shoulder, exposing, accidentally, the worst half of my face — the half with moles that look like pebbles sprinkled along the jaw line. “Excuse me?” I say, startled. There he stands. A six-foot tall islander, wearing nothing but a pair of white, baggie pants, a necklace, and dreadlocks that cascade down his back. He sucks his teeth and repeats, “Hi beautifool.” This time, I stop and turn around completely until we face each other, so that he knows exactly who he’s calling beautiful. We hold mutual gazes for a few seconds. He sees me. He examines my face and moves his impish gaze all the way down to my feet like I’m some sort of interesting map. Then he smiles, nodding as if saying “Not bad. Not bad at all.” “Comment ça va, beautifool?” His raspy voice, like that of movie stalkers and perverts, initially makes me consider a panicstricken sprint, but no sooner had my primal fear risen than it had disappeared. I resume my walk, fully expecting him to change his course, to readjust his bearings and move away from me and toward something that matches the perfection of his chest. Instead, he whispers soothing words in French, always one step behind me, with a chant-like accent, as if reciting an incantation. I smile. I can’t help myself. I’m amused and flattered and excited, all at the same time. I walk slowly — blood rushing through my veins — soaking in his relentless monologue. I think it appropriate to turn around and tell him to leave me alone, but instead, I decide to enjoy the game while it lasts. A gift from me to me. Why not? Maybe it is Halloween in Heaven and God is sending me some candy.


Blazing Aphrodite Richard Godwin. He consoled himself with the wild sea. Feasting on its solitude, he shunned the company of women. No one swam at the corner of the rugged shore where he rested away from the throng of the beach. The bodies looked all the same. He meditated on the nature of water and Aphrodite. She had swum too far and the current carried her there, and he felt lost in mythology as she appeared before him, water cascading from her skin. As she rose from the sea, she held his gaze, recognizing the look of a roué. He knew what was on offer. And he knew that she was out of the ordinary, and that she held the article he’d sought in all the others before he retired from the old life and its pain. And she alone knew the signature of his heart. She passed him, her skin smelling of salt water drying in the sun, and he found her at the bar, supremely cool beneath a parasol, sunglasses hiding the flicker of her eyes, and he passed her slowly and sat some distance away sipping his absinthe. He could smell peonies and rosemary, and the coursing of his blood in his veins told him the measure of her fertility. As she looked at him; she saw the tattoo of a cross on his brown shoulder, but when he rose and it became a shadow. “May I buy you another?” he said, gazing into her sapphire blue eyes. She paused, wanting to see doubt in him, gauging the tone of his voice. “Thank you,” she said, handing him her glass. He ordered the white wine, which came cool from the bar, and sat opposite her. Theirs was a rivalry of killers.


Tonight Will Be Fine Louise Blaydon They've been married three months when she says it: "You guys have slept together, haven't you?" Just like that, as she dabs moisturizer onto her cheeks. Straightforward, as she is in everything. There is no palpable undercurrent to her words, no challenge, but no guideline either. Christopher draws his brows together as he turns down the bedcovers. "What makes you say that?" Stalling. Pointless, really, as it is quite evident that her words were not really a question. "Oh ..." She shrugs, unworried; smears the cream across her cheekbones and works it into unblemished skin, "obvious, really. Just little things. The way you touch each other's arms when you talk. You watch his hips when he walks away." He is silent, sitting sideways on the bed, astonished. It is like some strange dream, and yet she is so absolutely herself, so thoroughly the woman he married, that it could only be real. "Oh, yeah?" "Yeah." She catches his eye and smiles, turns away from the dressing table and unhooks the first catch on her blouse one-handed as the other reaches for her hairbrush. "The way he was flirting with me. At first I thought he just had the hots for me." "He does have the hots for you." "Oh, I know." She waves a hand, as if this is beside the point, and shrugs the blouse off smooth shoulders, catching it neatly, refolding. "But mostly, he was trying to make you jealous." Christopher laughs, genuinely surprised. "You think? Of what? The fact that you were talking to him and not to me, right then, or the fact that he was with you and not with me?" "Both," she says, unhesitantly. The awkward positioning of her arms as she unzips her skirt makes her clavicle project prominently from her chest. Christopher wants to trace the line of it with his tongue. He knows the answer, really, to his next question before he asks it, but he asks it anyway out of habit, perhaps, or some lingering uncertainty of the sort which she has mostly smoothed away, drawn out of him with her gentle easy manner. "Does it bother you?" She hums her laughter in the back of her throat, mmmmm. "What, the flirting? Or the fact that you slept with him?" "Either," he says, with a little smile and a little shrug. She folds the skirt neatly, sets it down on the dressing table with her blouse. Her pearls shine iridescent in the yellow light from the bedside lamp, points of warm, white fire against pale skin. She looks at him for a silent moment as she unhooks the clasp of her bra, folds it, sets it with the rest. "Do you love him?" And there it is; here they are, abruptly on the edge of a precipice he has long dreaded, and yet never quite expected to be pushed to, especially not like this, with gentleness and knowing, instead of swords. He could lie, he thinks, wildly. But her eyes are very dark, and their steadiness on his own tells him that she will know if he does. She will know. So he says, "Yes," in a voice like darkness, whispering.


Lyrotica an anthology of erotic poetry & prose Available on June 28, 2011 For Kindle, Nook and in Paperback from Vagabondage Press LLC http://www.vagbondagepress.com


Lyrotica ~ an anthology of erotic poetry and prose.