Erotic Pasta and the Lesbian Who Ate It

Why don't
you twirl your
hair upon me like
angel hair pasta?

dip it into
the fiery red
sauciness of
erotic ambrosia,

garlic fresh
from my garden,
don't freshen your
breath with mint for hours,
pussy permeates the pores,

tell me
the brass
collander has
left an impression
upon you, the die-cast
eyelet holes have left you
drained, rinsed of starch,
are you straining, squirming,
tell me your tongue is pulling
away from the menu, and then

darting back
blotting with the
napkin in your lap,
tell me,

when have
you eaten so
well,

and so
much?

Copyright Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist