Was my first orgasm
included in that package holiday
to Hammamet? Or was I just gagging
to get loose on an afternoon
of cherry hookah and sun licked
skin to shake a carnal God awake?
I learned to pornstar fake
all previous attempts
for a boyfriend
raised on sticky
magazines, groomed
and gullible for my recital.
Rather than jackhammer
his self-esteem,
I held the secret,
as it swelled like a wet
tampon between my thighs,
heavy and begging to come
out. I eased it back in,
by gyrating on a spitting
camel, pacing to the peak
of a Tunisian sand dune,
writhing on sunsets
grasping to shake back to God.
My efforts were futile.
Months passed in a bed empty
of tiny earthquakes.
I dumped him.
Flirted with celibacy.
Grew convinced my clit
only tremored in magic
hotel rooms, until I switched
my Tinder profile to women
and found that I was God all along.
During lockdown, Carson adopted a cat to live like an eccentric writer, but now spends most of their time salvaging the poems her keyboard paws delete - rather than actually writing them. Surviving work can be found in Fourteen Poems, Stone of Madness Press, and Kissing Dynamite amongst others. @vincentvanbutch