Thirst
It’s so fucking hot. I’m a cactus…
desperately seeking fluid…
He says he’s the best and
that no woman can resist him.
That I will quiver and shake.
He’s “The King At his Game”.
My inner and outer A/C in on high.
Quench my desire…”King” or else!
Give me your sweat, your saliva and
all the manly juices you can produce…
Mr. King Of The Game! I’m dry!!!
Not begging. More…a challenge.
Prove your conceited words…”King”!
It’s hot…but I’m hotter. Burning hot!
So, we melt together. We create slickness. I drink him dry. He shrivels.
Next! The king is dead…
long live the next king.
Longer live the Cactus Queen.
I need more! Demand more!








Glad you’re back and posting erotica.
💋
Brilliant! harriet-jacqui xx
This was quite creative. How he… the conceited king shriveled and you arose to be queen and well replenished off him, haha. Love it!
Daniel
Gothic-Surrealist
I can see your disappointed with men from this and your previous poems. Scars can go pretty deep and disappointment can be frustrating. But your expression is always deep in itself. That’s what writing is for.