Tom Pretty Green

I kissed you like that. Green and hopeful. How I kissed you. I don't know if you're good for me but I can't stop thinking.

It's hard to sleep in bed with you, right now. It's hard to sleep. Comfort is a gradual growth. It's a cancer in a delicate balance.

You spread me open wide, I sprawl apart like a spreading weed. Green shoots. Meat thighs and wet lips. Your tongue and teeth are on me. There's a lot of sex and the fit is good. Both physical and head. Both physical. You drive into me and we cover each other up.

Comfort grows gradually. You stroke my face. Tease me. Smile at me. Ping my strings, like school yard stuff.

You run your fingers over my lips, push then into my mouth, rub yourself against me. Wind your body around me. Entangle. I give in and I crumble into earth. Into the earth. Every time. I give in. I adore you right now.

Rhyming Tom

I watch your mouth. You stroke my face. The air is think with awkwardness.

Who wants to pull the trigger? You first.


I am a mess, a bleeding and bloody mess. An oozing machine of swollen flesh.

I convulse and purr like an old car. You smear my cum into my hair. I don't want us to leave it there.


Drink makes me inhibitions non existent. You offer minimal resistance.

You take advantage in my bed, you fill me, I'm sodomised, I yelp, I hurt, I beg. I give you head.

I am smeared, coated, covered.
In love, in lust, unbothered.
Sex does that sort of thing, when everything around you stops existing.

Time stops ticking.
Listening.
Ticking.

I curl into you, stroke your thigh. Harden up, with no surprise. A whisper in your mouth and then, it sort of happens all again.