Capped with copper glinting in the light,
the sweat rolls down your long, graceful, brown neck
it settles within your sleek curves.
Waiting.
I rip off your top
you hiss slightly in complaint, but I know you never mind.
I drink you deeply, thirstily, drawing you into my waiting mouth.
You're sweet and heady on my tongue.
I taste you.
You taste like heaven.
I work with my tongue and hands.
You're spent too soon to satisfy my craving.
I'm not worried; I'll get more.
There are still five of you left.
--Ron Hogan
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