In the middle of the night
he comes to me,
the golden haired boy
in button fly jeans.
No shirt.
No shoes.
Just those 501 blues,
and the outline of
what he's exhibiting.
Lightly tanned.
Broad shouldered.
Smile white and gleaming.
Seductively curling lips,
full bodied and steaming.
Firm chest, points renowned,
one steel ring in one fleshy mound.
Arms shaped like the curves
on a serpentine highway,
smooth transition,
hilly ride through the palms
and hideaways.
Smells of leather and citrus,
slightest pooch on an otherwise
muscular stomach.
Trim waist.
Hard thick thighs.
Firm back end.
Grab a handful and
dig the nails in,
pulling him against me,
mouth at his chest,
look up into his eyes -
The South shall rise again!
Grasp him as he takes me tight.
Hold me with kisses just right.
Feel him up with a twist of his ring,
give him a tongue lashing,
follow him down to the
Mason Dixon Line,
Mint Julep served
one sip at a time.
Put me on the counter,
rebel flag in his hand,
push aside the land of cotton
and let his fingers do the walking.
Strummin' banjo, drummers drummin',
old times there are not forgotten -
Go way down south in Dixie!
Top and bottom buttons remain
like posts to the barn door
that swings open.
Stallion exits pulling hard
on the reigns.
General rides him into the meadow
without mercy while I cling,
arms completely around his neck
and legs highly sustained.
Hair gripped in one hand,
the other supporting my back.
Rocking horse winner
at the end of the track.
Got my ticket.
Cash it in.
Champagne bottle erupts.
Wreath of flowers falls at my feet,
and a championship blue ribbon
is in reserve for my golden haired boy
in button fly jeans.
Originally Posted On Site: 2008-02-22 16:44:09
Last Login: 02.27.08
Visits as of 12-12-07: 596
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