Gyrating on a Spitting Camel by Carson Wolfe

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.

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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