The Goddess of Blond Curls

A polyamorous poem

Photo by pcdazero on Pixabay

It was a polyamory group,
I attended
So many choices
in only one room
with a ceiling fan
and two club chairs

She, the goddess of blond curls,
shimmied in my direction,
barefoot with painted toes
She approached me with a peculiar slyness
Do you want to go somewhere
in private?

I followed the scent of a siren,
too diverse for a limited soul
I was just an awkward boy,
sheltered by my bad luck,
still wearing Pampers
with a shitload of insecurity

She taught me how to make love
from different camera angles,
painting my body with her tongue,
sex gliding across my heart,
her sweetness dripped like ice cream from a cone
Romantic words played in my head,
from Keats to Shelly and Lady Chatterley’s Lover