The Cock Chronicles: A Love Story

By Justine Michaels

Erotic poetry and narratives: Reader's comments -A woman's poetic and personal look at the dark and light sides of sexual love. -Delicious, sweet and sassy, delectable, sensual and sophisticated pleasure poems. -The definitive odyssey of love, loss, and solace where a woman finds closure. -Absorbing, thought provoking, intimate disclosure through fresh eyes of wonder and unbridled enthusiasm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 1, 2008
• ISBN: 9781483500737

Book preview

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The Cock Chronicles

Introduction

One spring in Seville with women friends to study dance, Justine was greeted daily by a man who said, We like strong women. We are not afraid of our women. His words, and the touch of his unshaven cheek, eroded her long standing, practical and comfortable indifference to men.

The following winter, in California, walking to work, she was greeted daily by a carpet layer whose agile body and laughter at measure twice, cut once stirred her thoughts again.

This is the story of the spring fever that followed.

Justine Michaels

Safe Sex

Latex.

Like paint,

never mix oil and latex,

so many ways to say a color.

First dip of bristles into viscous

wet paint

he sips champagne, winter white wet waves

in candlelight.

First taste of bold cock rising

wet paint bubbling, spilling over

bursting white

like spring.

3 Memories of His Bed

New sheets

crisp white and blue

counterpane,

polished cotton slippery

slick

as me

tasting

His tongue is new

in me.

In full power

from taking his pleasure

he leaves quickly in cold twilight.

I remain and drift.

The song of him in full power

pleasures me again.

The full moon pullcd

his hands onto my body.

and put taut nipples

into his mouth.

Spring Fever Special

Choose a sin. or don’t

limit yourself to one.

Mere gluttony. mastered;

never envious;

occasionally wrathful,

but righteous wrath should be.

Ain’t never slothed.

said with pride.

Ah. dear lust.

already satisfied with first touch

of velvet tipped ram

into greed.

Lust is sated.

Greed aches.

Midnight Rain

He docs not know

the pleasure of my skin

under midnight rain.

nor the moment of soft

nipples turning hard.

I am before him

in full light, breasts ready.

thighs ready.

Wet for the

exquisite moment of

bold cock mounting.

I Watched His Eyes

I watched his eyes

enjoy

the compact, folded,

absolutely fascinating

marvel of comfort in view before him.

"Show me how you touch.

Tell me what you like," he said.

Cock rising from copper nest

to visit this soft house.

I could barely breathe.

I forgot to say,

"Your laugh.

What I like is to make you

laugh."

Snacks

I’ll have afternoon

tea with scrotum, please,

in hard sauce.

And just a bite

of hot cock, please,

in cream sauce.

Served with

nipple nibbles,

nookie cookie,

Fresh pie.

And Cabernet kisses.

Myriad Activities

Myriad activities

elsewhere

did not remove

the touch of

damp thigh

from his fingertips

and did not release

the pressure of

erect nipples

from his tongue.

Tuesday

I live with death.

I buy half loaves of bread and

scant ounces of cheese.

I buy fruit too ripe,

bananas like sun,

mangos soft as splitting open for his view.

My idea of near future

is 4 o’clock.

I am too long pent-up, now flooding

into his mouth.

I cannot wait another minute.

But he says, "Wait.

Wait until Tuesday.

That’s the way it is.

That’s the way these things are."

I move as if I am in this man’s dream,

My body aches to welcome this man,

As Aphrodite rising from the sea.

In a Room Too Dark

In a room too dark,

he did not say his name.

even when I asked.

Or tcll his story.

although he listened well for mine.

I could not see his eyes.

which he said are green.

but I will find him.

I will find him

with my tongue.

Receipt

I bought:

Two creams for

excoriation pleasantly gained,

Another cream, vanilla scented.

I knew a lost boy once,

Then saw him as a man.

feed me. he said,

"I remember molasses

cookies and apple pie."

The vanilla is for him.

And red lipstick, bright red,

he wants to see bright red lipstick

on his cock.

Some primal thing,

his life pressed into,

spread across the

blood red home.

He calls me dear.

The lipstick is for me.

Your Hand

Your hand

remains in my skin,

pressing wider open

legs already open in willing passion.

Taking in

all that you are

fingers, tongue and cock

seeking the river home.

He Is So Pleased

He is so pleased

with my mouth,

and I with his.

There is no power here.

he says.

Only us.

But then,

he says,

"No, not now;

No, not yct, not now;

Latcr, not before 6;

OK. now. today. at 6."

I come

when he calls.

And he is so pleased.

Shalimar

The scents

and tastes he likes

remain

in his room

in his mouth

across his bed

a mist of Shalimar

and womanscent

lingers where

he searched for tears.

Wet Heaven

When I wanted him

he said,

Isn’t there something else

you could do with

your time.

I swim

Smooth strokes

release a billion

starry bubbles

into

wet heaven.

Everywhere

Everywhere

is

crowded.

I’ll be alone,

or with

his mouth

tasting skin with salt

dripping for

sweet seed.

Good Morning

Good morning

soft cock.

Enough resting alone,

rest here in my mouth.

I taste light night’s

sweat and honeysuckle.

Rise with me.

Scythe at My Heels

Scythe at my heels

I fled too soon into his bed

for refuge with

sweet

seed.

He said,

"You came at me

way too fast, way too open,

with great want."

I said,

"Take the dream,

Take the perfect champagne breasts

with nipples from soft to hard.

Take the mouth, the tongue, the legs.

Give only what you need."

Dear Cock

Ignore his rules,

dear cock,

he wants to be in love

not bed.

You and I,

with taste and tongue,

will meet our hunger.

Pleasant Skin

"You have pleasant skin,

a good mouth,

but I am perfunctory

at best," he says.

despite my claims of pleasure.

But there was a moment,

the briefest, most startling moment

of a muscle flexing from his hand on mine

when I saw the luck of the woman

for whom he will be present.

Men Are Kinda Sweet

In a boat

for more

only I

remain.

Long time drifting

I sought the world of men again

beard and sinew and cock

welcomed into this soft house.

"Men are kinda sweet

when we’re coming

awake. aren’t we." he said.

At least. no threat.

Yet.

You Are Hungry

"You are hungry.

But I am not your prey.

Prey doesn’t know that it’s food,

only that it survives."

Ok, then, smorgasbord, he offered

strong hands and chest, once dark, now

corrected for seasoning.

I’ll check my bones later, he said.

when you’re gone, and waved

a kiss for dessert.

The View from His Bed

The view

from his bed

is a shed.

Red rustic

small enough

to nestle with

a tree.

I love your shed.

You love a shed?

Back in his bed

I like your head

Eyebrow dexter

eyelid for licking

ear, nose and mouth

bearded lip and chin

I like

to bite.

Sir. like lasts.

sheds fall down

A Raft for Two

Slipping smoothly

perfectly through

the water,

1 breathe

with every stroke

toward

memory of your bed,

a raft for two.

The Game

Chanticleer surveys

the flock, but I

want

him.

I say forte

like Sumter.

and dour

like one who does.

Ah, ha,

he turns his eye.

Now if I can

just recall

‘abtuse’ and ‘obstruse’

and use one in a sentence,

you know, casual-like,

ah. ha.

the cock will sing.

My Fault

I gave him what he wanted

from his list:

‘Authentic’

Yes, like they say,

"If you can fake sincerity

you’ve got it made."

‘Playful’

Yes. I tried to tell my parents

once that I was sad as a child,

but they roared and said

"You’ve never done anything but

laugh."

‘Articulate’

Yes, I knew a Morris tune,

"First we’re here,

Then we’re gone."

But I lost the game.

My fault,

dear man,

to reveal desire,

to deprive you

of the hunt.

Reframing

"I’ve been

called a tomsumi,"

I told a friend, hoping

he’d shed some

light.

"Ha! a tsunami, you mean.

What a compliment for you

to find a man who likes

bright women. how rare.

What about him?"

"I’m not sure

it was a compliment really

but thanks," I said,

"I’ll take it that way now.

Well, he likes bright women

alright, but the land kind,

the ones who duck."

Tsunami

The love

who’s not a lover

anymore,

The diner

without

passion.

The one who

slept with you

not wanting to,

and now you talk about it.

I am not the tsunami.

The tsunami is the moment

alone together

in the boat riding the tsunami.

That is the tsunami.

Toast and Plum

Toast

and plum

in Sunday

all day bed.

Exquisite moment

mounting he knows

when to lift, or press

into my frame.

But

memory best

is of his laughter

from behind the eyes.

Swimming

What does

this man want

at this moment,

and how did

I miss it.

Hours together.

Smooth strokes

release a million

starry bubbles

into

wet heaven.

There Was a Moment

Not that

he didn’t fill me.

In the room

with music

in the corner,

I feel yet

waves of pleasure

at the memory of his power.

But there was a moment,

in the last moment

before twilight.

His arm around me,

crescent moon

surrounding void.

Prophecy

You could

take a trip

with a man

someone at your side,

not me.

You could

stand at the shoulder

of a man,

someone to hold your joy,

not me.

You could

feel music

with a man

someday, one wants your song,

not me.

Caregiver Relief

I read

about a man

once who fled

his duty.

Police found him

far away with a stranger

talking about stars

and showing off what

he’d found along the beach.

The man’s

back at home again,

we know where he is.

But I want to know:

Where is the stranger,

and will he walk along the beach

with me.

Any Two of Us

I knew

a man once

who had a picture on his wall

of two children walking into woods

Black Forest-like.

Any two of us

always alone in the woods

with only toast and jam.

‘49 Dodge

Should we go

cross-country straight,

or follow the coast

this time.

I sat up front

and read the maps.

Calculate the distance.

Faster here, now,

then we’ll have more time later.

Trees, the canyon, waterfalls

that no one else sees

except us, along the slow road.

Gliding Now

Plunging

into strange water

to scrape off

the first layer.

I do not know how

to breathe or show grace

against his strong

lithe limbs.

In one smooth stroke

his mind and mouth

subdue me

into origins of

an iridescent fish

from unreachable depths

gliding now

breathing easily in air

or water.

Sunlight

Sunlight

through the window

through the water

onto

nipples made visible

from the memory of

how he served

bouillabaisse and cock

as the first course.

Oil

Oil

seeping into secrets

First crush virgin time

with his fast hands

To scrape off the first layer,

he says,

"To get used to, ready for

More, later,"

He says,

"You are so hungry.’

Cock and hunger

Rise.

His Garden

Come

see my garden

I have a backyard pool,

a hammock by the tree house

where kids once played.

Come

see my garden

I will kiss you

later, we’ll need hours

with a full moon

you will contain me

you will bring stars

to my bed.

White Wine

White wine

his own brown bag label

He fed me cashews

from a cup

by the mimosa tree

like the one I knew

in Alabama.

What will I do

for this man

the one who

put his boat

into the Pacific.

I will watch

for music playing

past his eyes.

Appraisal

His appraisal

is endearing

as he reconnoiters

the terrain:

"Not much room

in here for me. but

may I use this body?"

That one smooth

exquisite moment mounting.

"May

I come.’

Yes,

dear man,

come home.

Clever Cock

Clever cock

resting along side

while oiled fingers

explore a place

to be one

smooth

exquisite moment

cock finds home

Almost Home

Almost home

hard cock

withdraws

and rests

on my belly

scepter-like

"A few drops

for you," he says.

primal-like

aboriginal dots

to mark this clay container

where

now inside again

now he finds

his home.

Brown Skin

I had

forgotten the pleasure

of having brown skin,

until sun

and water under his

Mimosa tree

freed my senses.

Aretha on the radio

anise from the field.

Now stretching

before a mirror,

I feel his hand

along certain curves

of brown skin.

Nothing Extraneous

"When I let something in,

I put something

out," he says.

Nothing extraneous

in his serene cottage

by the fig tree.

So

in that first

exquisite moment

of cock coming in,

What will I discard?

Not now, not yet,

maybe someday.

A piece or two

of armor.

The Memory of His Hand

My skin

does not respond

to my own hand

but nipples jump

at the memory of

his hand.

My thighs

are placid

to my own touch

but quiver

at the memory of

his body pressing into mine.

When did this man,

How did this man

slip from between my legs

into my mind.

Evening

Cold winds

pushing treetops

into twilight

Leaves

hanging on alone

or together

Like they say

find shelter in his arms

from cold winds.

He Calls

He calls,

and already knows

he does not have

to state his name.

Pounding heart,

How can I keep him out,

except in bed.

Do not let me think, yes

he could be

by my side, yes

his arms could be

my home.

Renaissance Man

He provides

all the elements

water, sky, a distant cloud

sun and sand,

polliwogs like I knew

in Alabama.

How did he know

how much I need

the water and the sun,

when I did not know myself.

Later, he’ll make