Thinking about the World Cup (and getting hot)

Scoring goals

fit men on the grounds

taut, tight

running, leaping –

the ball is kicked

my heart is hot

as I try to keep

my focus on the ball

and off the bodies

the hot bodies, vying

trying to place the ball

in the goal, the goal, the goal

a goal is scored, the body exposed

my goal is reached

as I track an imaginary

ball across my

personal playing field

and score my goal

as I watch them score theirs

ecstasy comes

when the goal is scored

my ecstasy,

their ecstasy

I got hot writing this poem and I’m almost at the point of resenting the presence of my husband and son, because I so want to score a personal goal.

The ball has pleasured my right nipple, my left nipple, I can feel them both straining against my shirt, wanting more. It’s in my head and fake though, I want it on the bed and real.

My thoughts continue and the ball has travelled across my belly and it’s getting closer, closer to the ultimate zone. I can feel a zing in my clit and my pussy lips are sliding against each other as I can almost feel the rubbing that will lead me to where I want, I need to go.

My pleasure zone, where orgasm is the only goal worth getting.

Oh please, please give me some private space.