Jamie Joy Gatto
is founder/creator/editor of Mind Caviar, Ophelia's
Muse and A Bi-Friendly
Place, an online bisexual resource center. She's a widely published
author/editor crafting short fiction, essays, columns and poetry, and she
performs spoken word regularly in her home city of New Orleans. Gatto's
hardback book, Sex Noir, is available from Circlet Press. She has
published several eBooks at Renaissance
eBooks including Strictly Bi and Suddenly Sexy-- soon
to be combined into a paperback edition-- and the forthcoming Villains
& Vixens anthology edited with M. Christian.
Visit
Jamie
Joy online.
Illustration by Claudio
Parentela Visit his gallery
online.
Aries
~ from your Capricorn
Fire
walker, fire eater, fire in your soul.
Man,
you walk on soot black death coals
dancing
lightly
rise
above those tongues of flame
that
lick your feet,
worshiping
your fire within.
Mother
earth opens to you, my fire man,
who
finds a home in me to nest his flames,
burning
brightly, ever nightly
fire
man, you put your fire in me
make
me whole. |
|
Brushburn
Beard
~ for Ben
Enfolded
by his mass, I am small,
convulsing,
in slow motion
our
bodies wrapped like casings.
Our
limbs entwine to become one creature
made
of urgency, breathing labored.
scent
of skin
of
musk
of
cock
of
spit
of
sweat
of
cunt
of
hair and scalp
Our
breath together smells like rain,
faintly
like the flesh of not-yet-ripe plums,
a
little like earth, both light and dark.
His
mouth moves over my flesh,
foraging
upon my skin,
my
oils,
my
tiny, tender, white hairs.
He
eats of me,
my
body, my muscle,
I
ripple in pleasure, I want, I need,
find
my core, give me more.
He
moves his head to and fro,
lapping
at my neck,
nipping
at my lobes,
dipping
down to suckle
nipples
the pale blush of wild strawberries.
He
whisks two day’s worth
of
bearded stubble
over
my tenderest flesh
stinging
me with want,
he
covers me with kisses;
his
saliva cools the burn.
Weekday
mornings I watch him,
cheeks
full of foam,
wearing
Santa’s beard.
He
scrapes his flesh with the razor,
smoothing
the planes of his neck, his jaw
paving
the road of his face soft and pliant.
He
dips into the steaming basin,
shaking
off the excess water
twists
his lips left and right,
examining
his next move in the mirror
as
if playing a game of chess.
He
avoids the mole on his left cheek,
a
mark of beauty adorning a patch
near
a deep dimple
which
only emerges
in
a genuine smile.
He
rarely nicks, but when he does,
red
on white appears in tiny rivulets
pureed
raspberries drip over whipped cream.
If
I could lick his wound,
I
would,
I
would heal him if I could,
if
I shared the salve of dogs
Tonight
I writhe
under,
together,
atop,
I
rock.
In
rhythm we moan.
By
morning I’ll wear a brushburn beard,
planted
on my face,
borne
of our desire.
In
morning, he’ll scrape away the culprit bristles
Silently
dipping razor in water,
touching
razor to face,
twisting
his cheeks
until
they are clean.
Monday
mornings I bear the marks
of
our love,
chapped
and raw,
like
wind-burned kisses,
worth
the pain,
with
bliss to remember,
an
exquisite reminder of Sunday’s rapture
Copyright ©
2004 Jamie Joy Gatto. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.
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