Road Trip

Erotic Poetry

The map is a blueprint of skin, as we travel it together, rewrite words and worlds, freedom is ours, we call at a quiet beach, fuck in the sand, giggle like young lovers as distant voices billow in the breeze. 

The feel of you on that beach between my thighs, my dress pulled up, I ride your size, your zipper undone, no hesitation or contemplation, just raw lust, loving the fresh air and cool mist on my hot ass as your hands grasp and pull me in tight, fill me, and you bite at my throat in sacred pleasure. 

Back on the road, the highways dissolve at the border, the quiet, wild country begins, rolling fields awash with sin and goodness, you and I meet at the in-between. A space without constraint, I think I might cry out, wind in my hair, legs bare, feeling the breeze goose-pimple my knees as our fingers intertwine, and my jaw aches from the earlier hard kissing. 

I’m missing your touch because you’re driving so much, and the lust is causing me to combust, even as we’re arriving at our next stop. And I hope you might just take me over the bonnet or lift my skirt in the street. We’ve said barely two words in as many hours. Yet so much has been said that I’m rosy and red - wind kissed, And transfixed. Tapped into only now, this presence and passionately living. 

This current stop has a pool and it’s good to feel cool. We sip soda as you push my bikini aside, press your fingers inside, the water's surface ripples as we tenderly kiss, 
a certain bliss to the privacy of what’s below the water. I hold my pleasure in, it’s fun to restrain it, watch your attention maintain it, my edge, a deathly stare into my wanting eyes, your fingers that feel like God himself. You might drown me here. As I melt into the swell. I’d die happy as well. 

Then back on the road. We track the long arc of the coast, salt-rimmed and heavy with heat, learning that some roads are lost the moment our latitudes meet. It was time to let go though, make space for new chapters, deeper stories, richer, glorious mornings. Tender nights, take me to rough heights, and you hold my hand on the way down again. To travel and take up the world like sailing, the prevailing wind carried us. There was barely any doing; it was simply that we met, and here we are. 

Your fingertips, a compass that slip down my back, tracing the ridge of my spine, an atlas designed by your lips, where your territory swallows up mine. 
And owns it. We don’t belong to each other, we just move along beside each other. 

We park in the woods, shade and privacy, later you tell me there’s a spot to make love under the stars, fuck away the scars. We nap, my head falls on your shoulder, it couldn’t have been bolder when I say I love you. You take it and taste it as naturally as if I’d passed you a drag of a cigarette because you already knew it was yours; it just felt good to breathe it in. The stars that night made me glad to be alive, and you did too. 

After that, every valley and pulse-point of my body you claim. Each inch of flesh becomes a new city we found together, you whisper a mapmaker’s name on this freshly discovered, damp ground. No passports, no timetables kept,  just the rhythm of pistons and thighs, in a motel room where the ceiling fan sweeps the humid, dark shift of the skies. 

We prime and pump, my soft sex plumped, the bed thumps against the room wall, and we thrash to make more noise. We didn’t come here to live small. Let’s take it all, respectfully and in wild abandon. 

We are tangled in sheets like a sail catching the weight of the storm, blushing as daylight turns pale and the midnight grows heavy and warm once more. We snuggle, wrapped into each other, you lifting the hair off my neck and kissing behind my ear until I turn and fold into you. 

We are leaving no tracks on the floor, just a slipstream of motion and heat, where feet land and tyres trail blaze. And morning breaks and we're still awake, for if I sleep I’ll miss you so for now, let’s talk about how we’ll swallow the world like Jonah, and live into its edges and corners, together even, if we’re not. Hallelujah.   

Writing the whole damn way, for what is there better to say and share in the world than freedom? Adventure airs in poetry or rhyme, not wasting time, but relishing it, feeling fine, high on creativity because it's not a sin, when there are no limits, only skim the best of it and be in now. 

Two travellers paused at the door, where the arrival and departure lines meet, feeling momentarily complete and enjoying company. 

Wish you were here!

@viannearmour