I Am Fully Dressed Poem by Ian McArthur

Hey Important Here Read This: warning, this poem is sexually explicit! I'm fairly sure it doesn't actually break any particular rules, but its edgy enough so if your under age or offended by the implications below, or have any kind of qualm about this, please don't say I didn't give a fore word of warning. If someone can point out to me that this piece in some way DOES break some kind of rule, please let me know so that I can remove it without trouble (might take some time.)

Alright than... This poem is pretty much just a written account with some, but surprisingly little, poetic licence taken to depict a good memory of mine. I think it also conveys a bit about who I can be at times, but the poem itself is rather raw and unedited, which is the way I've always preferred them to be. I'd rather this to be read as a narrative poem that Happens to be sexual, and not a sex story that happens to be a poem. (Note that sex doesn't actually occur) ...I'm rambling again... Read, consider, comment please.


I am fully dressed
as we brush each others legs
any painter would conclude
scene of the artful passion nude

My hand rolls across her skin
Like glaciers caress the earth
Just as slowly, I torment her
Patient, I observe.

She mentions her protectives, and their purpose.
I decline, no cherry popped.

The moon keeps its eye open
jealously it listens to her sigh
the arch of her back, her pressing need
My fingers feel warm skin, and pride.

Her fabric lifts, my touch awakens
sleeping curves, restive muscles
winding across and under, I scout her navel
My hands may wander off like a rainstorm in the night
My tongue remains, tasting, twisting.

She is enthralled, her pleasure is mine
Despite my greed she sees the divine
But still I press on slowly
no touch untouched, no kiss not pressed.

Kneading, teasing through the softening bra
She must hate me for this tectonic pace
But I will move her world just as certainly
Her breathing quickens. I do not.

I am silent. The wind does not interrupt.
Her moans are musical.
She moves in tandem with desire
pressing into me, I am stoic.

Now the areolae glisten
She is Pavlov's dog
but it is I who somewhat slavers
Though I be her enslaver.

She pounces, coiled snake
striking for my lips with hers
Her aggressive need envenoms me
It spreads, stirring my blood,
By my will restrained, and no other.

Reciprocate the kisses with force
Tongues joust, Shining night,
there will be no darkness veiled, no armour
That will guard her against ecstasy.

I am grateful to have two hands.

Independent, coordinated, they set out to conquer her
She gasps in pleasure when I pinch, she pushes more
Her heart thrums the beats of passion and of war.

I move. With all my senses I bend down.
She thrusts her hips, they shake and will not settle.
As if I would not circle first.
She is incensed, as am I.

Where her mind went off to,
what she saw with those rolling eyes
I don't know.
With the dipping, curling of my fingers
she cried out to the skies.

My hands are pressing, groping, shifting.
The bristles of her mons, my unshaven chin,
scratch one another.
Panting, Shaking, volatile once more
As unrelenting as the seasons, I drive her on again.

With bare-breasted confidence and grace
she rides out those waves
She comes down from the clouds,
turning a sultry eye to me.

She aches to peel my clothes
I concur.
Her small hands, small mouth, perch atop my frame.
I feel her enthusiasm, but
nonetheless I can't ignite.

In the end, I lend to her tongue the helping hand
I am master of her pleasure
And so restrained, I am
bound and gagged by my control, the burden of command.