the visiting writer, a slut, the lovely l, and the lady of ten thousand needles

The familiar tracing of her fingers, but now she knows exactly where it hurts. Her voice, Here yes, hurt here? is reassuring. Combined with her fingers and palms, the precision of her insertions, it feels like love. A lover? A mother? You tell me, I do not know. It feels like a love that does not care how you would define it, would shrug, say, Okay, sure, if you like. An inspection of my tongue told her: Too much heat in the body - do you like sweets?

Her fingers on my back did feel like a clawing, a pawing. I saw that you noted that down so surely we will revisit that word choice. But her fingernails were long and her hands strong and her demeanor aggressive (of course flirty, a faux sexy) and so why am I having to defend this choice of word? And then you do not even ask me to give reaction to her breathy throaty sexy whisper into my ear, I do hope that I'll be seeing more of you. 

When I asked her about her use of colons: she made a joke: Ah, colons - everyone has one. Ha ha ha ha. I did not find it funny then and today less so. You can ask me anything. Please do. Anything. I will bow to the person that thinks I have something to tell them. And do not minimize the effort to form a question: the strain, the pain: like defeating constipation, like lady grow the fuck up already. What kind of poet jokes about writing? 

Already you have established value: maneuvering the Poet's return from the woods (and his blessed thickets), with certainly the pirate to hail from the high (emphasis on: high) seas soon thereafter. A fine ally you make, my lovely. (Have I mentioned the guest quarters offer an encouraging view of both the natural and urban habitat, and provides the privacy that you require? And the existing tenant can be relocated easily enough.)