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Generation Gap in Poetical Prose

Would you call this a fetish? A coed and her older poet? Her IQ is 140 plus...
I am just a man. Yes, I am tall and I am "built" so the young woman said.. But, I really don't think that I am that great looking, average looks, perhaps. So, why are young women attracted to me? I can honestly say "I have no idea!" Beauty, sexiness and sex are in the eyes of the beholder.

“I’ve waited all day, ”She said,
“What kept you anyway?”
She sat on my sofa with a pout,
Early I guess her classes were out.

“I do work from time to time,” said I,
“But now you are mine,” she chimed,
The pout left as she stood,
Replaced with a smile of mischievous looks.

She swaggered to me with a kiss full and deep,
Her long lanky arms laced about my neck,
I remember the night we met, saw eyes to eyes,
Me six foot three and she with four-inch heels.

She lead to my bedroom hand in hand,
The bed was made and ready, the girl had plans,
She had been busy while she waited for me,
As she removed my shirt with kisses of glee.

We stood as clothing fell to the floor,
My pants she undid on her knees and bent red toes,
The same with my briefs, if you please,
Then she made love to my semi until it was hard.

She arose with a smile, satisfied,
And fell to the bed of lasciviousness,
“Help me off with my jeans,” she cooed,
Tattered and two sizes tight, her generation’s garb.

I tugged and pulled at the cuff of her slenderness,
Her jeans yielded with giggles of youthfulness,
And released the scent of her womanliness,
Her panties slipped off with wet sultriness.

Her knees bent with long feet on the sheets,
She spread her lanky, shapely legs wide,
And watched me bow on my elbows before her,
Her chin to her chest and her eyes to mine with anticipation,

A field of golden wheat was before my sight,
Sodden with the scent of harvest,
Dew hot, rich and thick,
Wet whirlwinds and circlets of desire.

My hands clasped her strong, thin thighs,
As her lovely head went back and she looked to the sky,
My fingers and thumbs held her tight,
And squeezed until her sensual lips spread.

I kissed her petal pink,
I tongued her bud very wet,
Until my mouth was covered
With the pollen of her wantonness.

She trembled-- she shook,
She arched her willowy back,
She sighed, she moaned
As gooseflesh covered her inside and out.

She tilted her pelvis to my mouth,
And moved east and west,
North and south,
Then, with a shudder, she came again and again.

Rest from harvesting for an hour,
The beautiful flower jumped from my bed,
With a warm wet cloth she returned,
And washed her glaze from my face with love and tenderness.

The ballad is about a young woman and her first older man, and the older man with his first young woman.

But like most young woman they think the grass is greener over the hill, and yet the older man remains her thrill.
She is married now and has given her son my first and middle name unknown to her husband of her generation.

There is nothing wrong with a young woman that time does not cure.

There is nothing wrong with an older man that a young woman cannot fix. But it is an impossible love in this culture and society.

Incorrigible I am? I think not, so there you are. Someday the young woman will want to stay…

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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