A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Your hand takes my keys from my pocket,

and I’m grateful. I wouldn’t let me drive

right now either. I didn’t know you could

drive a stick, but you’re full of surprises

today. Between gear changes,

the soft pressure of your hand

on my thigh anchors me to my desire,

but already I feel rising panic

more than rising heat.

What was I thinking? That kiss

was one thing, but I know where

this road leads. I’m frightened

and ashamed. You will see

this body, and how can it be anything

but a disappointment? I know

people say they like curves but these

are not smooth, stylised art. You’ll see

the way this body folds and bulges, 

how it tries to escape where my underwear

tries to hold it in, how it sags, how it moves

sometimes unpredictably, 

a seismograph of even the subtle motions

in my body. I don’t know why

I seem to be so sure that my clothing

has hidden this all from you, and that somehow

it will be a rude shock, but I can hardly bear

to look at it myself, to touch it myself, 

to love myself, 

and so how could I expect 

more from you?

Your hand leads mine across your threshold, and 

once again you devour my lips with yours

and I am a tousled confusion of heat and yearning

and the cold sweat of fear. You trace

the outline of my rib cage down to my waist

and I try not to think of the sheer volume of body

beneath your fingers, and I try

not to wonder if you’ve noticed it yet, but you

start to lift my shirt and I – 

no, stop.

Instantaneous response: concern and respect, 

even if it tinted a subtle shade of disappointment.

You ask if I’m okay, you apologise

“if I’ve moved too quickly”

but no, I’m sorry. I want this, 

and I tell you that, but I’m just fighting 

my own demons here, and at the moment

they are winning. You draw

me into your embrace, now comforting

and protective, where but a moment ago 

it was lustful and desirous, and the gentle

melody that is your voice says:

I won’t do anything you don’t want,

but I need to tell you how badly I want

to explore every inch of your beautiful body

and

I interrupt you – beautiful?

Your eyes search mine and you know

(you knew already) that I’m not being coy

or fishing for compliments, as your fingers

skim my curves once more, and you ask

May I?

I muster an almost imperceptible nod, and you 

remove my coverings, a reverent unveiling. I think 

about stopping you. I think

about the pale white skin draped over lumpiness, 

spattered with scars and stretchmarks and

hair that seems to dark (and oh my goodness, 

when did I last shave?) but you

are touching me, and those lips

are traveling the landscape, gently 

kissing each piece I wish could remain unseen,

and murmuring about the beauty of my belly

and my hips and my thighs, exploring 

the marks and the scars, and using

so many adjectives

I would never have associated with this body – 

attractive, desirable, enticing, glorious

delectable, intoxicating – if I didn’t know you better

I’d think you were lying.

And you take my hand again, and guide it

to the evidence on your body

that my body has caused a thirst, a need

in you, that already there is pleasure,

but you will not allow me 

to focus on intensifying that. Your lips

are on the nape of my neck, one hand

playfully teasing a nipple, while the other

explores the rivulet of desire between my thighs, 

playing my ecstasy like an instrument, 

and you tell me you will not stop

until I can feel my own beauty.