Monday, January 04, 2010

The Pocket Poet Thief
Kofi Fosu Forson

I am a pocket poet thief. "Intellectual fuck," she called me, Nuelle, a Russian barber from Queens, New York.

She knew them well, the bros, bitch-shit boys from the hood. They walked in with the bounce, careful and clever ready to pounce with knife or fist. But leave it up to them to tone and touch, a soft tweek on Nuelle's shoulder. Never would she have allowed a kiss on the cheek not even on the days I tipped well or brought a bottle of wine for New Years.

I am a pocket poet thief. She liked me. I addressed the days' innuendo whenever I walked in. "Nuelle you've lost some weight." " "Nuelle we should go out sometime." Just enough to keep my options open to trip her up.

Maybe she would have had enough of the bruiser cruiser-bad boy behavior. These fucks had nothing on me. I dressed well, smoked my 555 imports, kept it simple. While she cut my hair, I divorced myself of cliches.

We spent the time clicking on our hopes and desires. She wanted back to school. I wanted to open a hotel. She had a daughter. I was single. But it was all sexstress the moments our eyes made contact in the mirror.

What of the poet? Yes indeed I am. I trust you know your vocabulary or persistent in your vernacular. I've walked the streets of Italy at night. Had enough hand jobs in buses traveling across the midwest. I have handled Hong Kong waitresses. Made of with a teenager at a wedding in Vancouver.

It is therefore my assertion that I'm well-spoken. Like a thief with tongue I take with word what you say and I spin. I drug the meaning of what's spoken and present you with the most poetic thing you ever heard. It has worked well at parties, bars and even funerals. For a woman to take of her panties at a time of death I would have served her well.

Nuelle and I made it to a casino one night. After hours of gambling we made it back to the hotel room. Strong I was. The kiss that is was muscular, arrogant, tough full of tongue and grit. With our clothes on I handled her.

The smell of perfume on her neck, a whiff then a lick on the ear-lobe, nibbling, biting... Gripped her by the shoulder, watching as she undid her shirt. Even before she removed her bra, I stuck my fingers in to pull out her breast, sucking full-mouthed, tasting her nipple. She allowed me the comfort of the other breast. I did the same.

She stripped herself of underwear, pulled me towards the bed where she fell on her back, lifting up her skirt to expose her pussy, shaven, wet and moist. With both fingers I spread her open licking, gradually sucking juice, rotating my tongue all around, spreading the pussy wider...

Our clothes off and on the bed, I stuck my dick in her, forced it in hard and began to ram in and out, spreading her knees apart. On her side I thrusted again slower with a groove, watching as her leg angled in the air. Her black pumps perfectly placed on her foot. I bent her over on the bed, dug it in and stiff-fucked her. Her hips banged against mine in a hot rhythm.

She wanted it in ass particular. I took my time, readied it, patient and vulgar, managed to pull of the trick. I went in and out with such symmetry. Both her arms were stretched east to west on the bed. One side of her face remained flat on the bed. Her buttocks raised, I mounted over fucking the dirt of her.

Pulling out, I turned her around to face me. I jerked my dick, stripped it of cum...all over her face, grimacing as she struggled to lick the excess of her lips.

The week after we met again we hardly said a word to each other. I gave her a fat erase any notion that we were lovers. Our eyes made contact in the mirror yet again.

She knew. I knew... That was plenty.

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