Sex with Strangers - Lyman Grant

Sex with Strangers

1

It's not men I hate, exactly.
It's just who they are,
their strength, their determination,
that urge that even the weakest of them have.
My father was a banker;
my mother died of cancer.
I will never forgive him for that.
Somehow he thrived
in this desert town.
He shed his skin and let
the seasons slough away.
The sand filled winds scraped him clean.

What is it about men
that lets them soar,
that dulls their need
for water that soothes,
and pools where children play?
They do not thirst, except,
of course, for the rivers
they drink between women's legs.

I hate them all.
Especially the ones who can't be weak.
After they cry or break down,
they somehow seem, I don't know,
kind. I love a man
who, once in a while,
no matter how wet I am,
no matter how much I want it,
can't get it up.


2

It is a little sad, I guess,
the way some men become
little boys, the way they suck
like their lives depended on it.

You almost expect them to call
you mom. No that I would mind so much.
Most of the time I like the way
that need turns for them toward love.
I mean, what's a breast for,
if not a little comfort.

And I admit there are times
after he has done it to me
hard and deep and made me sore
that I curl inside his arms
and become a little girl who will
never leave this bed until her daddy calls.


3

I like it when I'm naked first
and stand before them, legs apart,
strong, for them to see I'm not afraid.
I tell them to drop their clothes;
this is how I know if they'll be good.
The best have no fear. They look me
in the eyes when their trousers fall
and never look away as they shed the rest.

I like it when I'm finished first
and when they're done I pull away,
lie with my hands behind my head,
let my nipples rise like steam.
If he is strong his limbs will lie
as long as mine and feel no need
to touch or hold. Our sweat
collects in the space between.
We meet in heat and part when we cool.

~Lyman Grant
Source: http://www.proseax.com/Dose10/index.htm