an unrehearsed universe

Ringside

Your skin tastes like strawberries
         the tart stickiness of fruit
         straight off the vine
Slathered and dipped in
         the fluffy sugary buttery goodness
         of homemade whipped cream

Your eyes are alive with devilry
         when you speak such fantastic lies
The sweat gushing from my pores
         more like over-salted broth than anything else
The words a transparent ploy to distract me
         from the hitch in your breath old man

Using what is handy I call you out
         the challenge issued: boxing glove to the face
A light love-tap because we are no longer sparring
         but nevertheless deadly serious in intention
Sir you have impugned my honor for the last time
         the choice of location and weapons is yours

How about a battle axe you ask smirking
         I struggle to keep my face impassive
         this being one round I am determined to win
Even if I have to resort to low blows
         like bending over and fiddling
         with a shoelace that requires no tying

On second thought you say stalking me across the ring
         the amusement still in your voice
         but subsumed by the hunger
I choose lances you growl and when I hit the ropes
         unable to back up any further
         you throw me down onto the mat

Oh so the gloves are coming off are they
         I taunt cheeky as ever and fairly thrumming in anticipation
Thirty strokes whoever comes first loses
         you count aloud while I parry each of your slow thrusts
By the time you hit sixteen I am ready to explode
         twenty-one has me begging you to go faster

At twenty-six we call it a draw.