They haunt the streets in skirts and silk,
in slips of lace like spilt warm milk.
A bra strap peeks, a hemline lifts
my cock responds to subtle shifts.

I pass a rack at Macy’s slow,
where satin thongs in lilac glow.
A breeze of pussy, ghosted faint
a scent that makes my fingers taint.

At shows, at clubs, on flashing screens,
in every form from rough to clean.
Fishnets grip each sinful curve,
her ass a shape I don’t deserve.

Victoria’s Secret at the mall
I stall, pretend to make a call.
But really, I’m just breathing in
the air that clings to carnal sin.

She stands in lace the color true,
I dream in red what I’d undo.
The thong would shift between her cheeks,
the bra undone while someone peeks.

A waistband peeks, her hips just so
my thoughts get loud where I can’t go.
I wonder if she’s trimmed or bare,
if cotton clings to pubic hair.

Some girls in gym shorts pass me by,
but one in pink lace caught my eye.
That flash of red through workout gear
it stays with me for all the years.

On TV, in a steamy scene,
a girl bends down in sheer white green.
My hand slips low, my thoughts turn vile
I stroke to lace in lingerie style.

A post, a pose, her panties peek
I feel that hunger start to speak.
I don’t need words, I need the stain
the thread that drives me half-insane.
I close my eyes, my grip gets rough…
and lace alone becomes enough.