Poetry Lessons

Poetry Lessons
by David Cain

Class droned on forever, one of those days of literary analysis where words seem dead and the author’s point seems to be that we shouldn’t waste our lives reading when there are rosebuds to gather. Each click of the second hand came only after a moment’s pause, the slow mockery of a bored tick-tock man. I kept awake and endured. For that, I deserved a reward.

My classroom purgatory lay on the edge of campus, and with unplanned good fortune, my apartment sat just beyond a seedy commercial district which boasted several establishments draped in blue. I pulled emphatically at the solid wood door that granted access to the windowless bar, and stepped into the utterly dark transition of the curtained foyer. My eyes adjusted to the dim light while my ears adjusted to the brash noise of a heavy-metal riff. I pushed aside the curtain and let my senses be dazzled.

Yellow lights sparkled in sharp points of radiance down the length of the small room, echoed by mirrors behind two small stages, the chrome rods rising like pillars to mark each platform’s edge, and half-empty glasses of expensive cheap beer. My attention fixed at once on the girl, wholly naked, not four feet away, shaking her bum in an elderly gent’s face. I walked the narrow aisle, avoiding feet and a tray-laden waitress, still mesmerized by the poetry of soft tits shaken.

Another dancer, a blonde with inflated boobs and a stiff prance, worked the stage further down, but a glance down toward her and another back again made my choice simple and I looked to sit down near the lovely who had first caught my eye.

I found a chair some two yards from the stage, and sat down with a sigh, forgetting in one simple motion the cares of my day. I clutched my notebook in my lap, leaned back in my chair and watched the girl dance.

Pale pink nipples fronted her chest, like lazy wide eyes reflecting each drunk patron’s stare, the dozen glazed expressions fixed between beery gulps. I imagined the girl in a yellow and white sundress, walking through the small park down the hill. She might smile just that way when the breeze lifted her dress lightly, a mischievous gust fought with china hands. I could tell her about the daisies, how they follow the sun.

“Hey, Steve,” said Janine, the weekday’s regular waitress. She has a slight gap between her front teeth and a light scar on her neck which could only be seen when she cocked her head, letting her black hair fall to the right.

“Hi, Janine.”

“How was class?” she asked.

“Dull, dull, dull,” I lamented. Janine’s black halter hugged tight, a size too small at least, forcing her breasts to spill forward to escape. She has a cute belly-button. I told her so. She rolled her eyes.

“Do you want lunch, or a beer?”

“Still can’t afford to eat. Gimme a Bud,” I replied.

“One Bud,” Janine echoed mechanically. A tall business-looking man bumped into the small woman as he tried to pass by. “Hey!” she said suddenly, showing a mean snarl. I shook my head, disapproving of the treatment she so bravely endured. Janine smiled a wry smile and turned away. Her shorts cut off before her bottom had finished, showing small crescents of her behind.

I opened my notebook, looked for a second at a few scrawled words, and closed it again. “Later,” I told myself, and turned my thoughts back to the stage.

The girl wore a skirt and struggled with her top. A primal chant marked the descent of an old Aerosmith tune. I looked around the cluttered bar to see who might come next. A smile erupted as I watched Elise striding forward. My heart pounded as the dark dress she wore tickled my senses. I fumbled with my notebook, self-consciously excited.

Golden blonde hair fell over her shoulders like a mane, a glittering tawdry fountain of white and yellow and twinges of pale red, lit in stark contrast to her black cotton shift. My mouth watered as Elise took the three steps leading onto the stage, her lean legs revealed with each short ascent, parading delicate feet bound in the black leather to tall heels. Exchanging smiles with her predecessor, she led the pack of men below in a brief round of applause.

Elise surveyed us during the rattling bar noise of the song’s intermission, her blue eyes alive in sizing up her prospects. She danced, I knew, in the ecstasy of her own delight, but she also danced for her living, and gave her best where it paid the most. I waited for her gaze to reach mine, anxious to feel the warm familiar smile she would surely bestow on me. I returned her silent greeting with a nod and a simmering sense of anticipation.

The music began, some popular dance song imported from England and Elise began to sway her luscious hips, swinging the hem of her dress in growing arcs. Janine sat my bottle down in front of me.

“Five-seventy-five,” she said. I hurriedly pulled seven dollars from my pocket and handed them to Janine, my eyes reluctant to leave the stage, where Elise slowly lifted her dress to reveal the first glimmers of red satin panties.

“You like belly-buttons, then,” said Janine with a smirk.

“Let me kiss yours,” I said, still staring at Elise.

“Yeah, right,” said Janine. “I’ll give you something to kiss.”

Elise lifted the dress over her head, her full breasts stretching with the lift of her arms, falling back as she shook her long mane loose. Dark rouged nipples jiggled in the stage mirror as she hung her cotton dress from a hook. I took a sip of the cold beer, my vision transfixed on the shudders of her flesh. Elise, free in her blossoming nudity, picked up the rhythm and began to truly dance.

Hers was no excitable schoolgirl’s loose jazz of shakes, twirls and kicks, for Elise had been trained to entertain with her motion, the studied execution of rhythm, form and control. I watched in amazement as she waved her ripe breasts before us in supple provocation. Her shoulders and hips swam through the drum beats. Her eyes told tales, wild and sweet.

Elise bore a remarkable resemblance to a girl I once knew, a pretty young thing with an innocent playfulness and a biting wit, a girl who had teased me incessantly and then dashed away just as the craving to kiss her had finally sent me mad. I spent a wealth of nights longing for that lost chance to caress my sweet Sally, to tickle her fancy, to tease her with kisses the way she’d teased me.

Elise turned her back to me, bending slightly at the waist to wiggle her round pantied ass at my affection. I adored her. She tickled her bare back with the tips of her golden mane, falling between the wings of her shoulder blades, striped faintly with a bikini tan.

“I’d love to see her naked,” the young man confided as we sat at the pool, watching Elise dive into the deep water. I smiled to myself, knowing that I’d never tell him how easily his wish could be granted.

The red satin of her panties shimmered in the gleams of yellow light, as her full bottom quaked in a bold taunt at my weakness. I pushed my wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of my nose, eager to capture every blessed moment of the vision she offered. I dropped my notebook off my lap, onto the grungy floor, but paid it no mind as I refused to relinquish my impassioned stare. Her thumbs slipped under the crimped elastic waistband. I held my breath.

Her lean legs held in a straight line, and she slowly pushed her panties down. My lust fluttered sorely. The moon of her bottom escaped from the confines, folding cloth marking the fading horizon. I ached with hunger, watching her beautiful globes come into sight, further and further in slow exquisite motion. A dark shadow in the deep valley teased me with dirty thoughts of the girl’s living scent. Down the cloth rolled, into a straight rope and the shorn lips of her pussy came at once into view. I sighed a gust of overheated breath. A sparkle of dew gleamed between her pink swollen folds.

With the sight of her luscious cunt, an inferno of uncontrollable desire raged within me, and I felt myself falling at once desperately in love. As Elise turned away, picking up the lost beats of the song with a rapid and studied sequence of steps, I gave myself to a cascade of visions, of today and tomorrow and yesterdays relived, of words screamed in lonely nights, never spoken, dreams never revealed and in a fit of revelry, I let myself imagine boldly inviting her home, kissing her sweet, and making her mine with a ring and a life. And Elise danced, enchanting us all.

“Another beer?” Janine asked.

“Sorry,” I said. “That’s all I can afford.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Well, I hope so.”

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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