All those times I lay back yearning for your mount.
Aching to be taken instead of only drawn to you.
You would take my hand, and place it—which I loved.
I always did the right thing, the right way, always—for you.
But if I took your hand, placed it, was held—it was that I should
take in turn. Not learn, nor just initiate, but teach—and take.
All those times I lay back, just yearning to be taken—
your primal desire to have, to do, to satisfy yourself.
But you could never know. ‘How strange’, you said, ‘to have
dangly bits—I really can’t imagine what it must feel like’—whilst I
I would look at you and know. And I didn’t lie, when I replied
that I knew exactly how it feels to be a woman—and yearning.
One of us was lying, in bed. Loving—but lying and not
realising. Eyes closed. Lying. Longing. Longing to be taken.
2013 © Andie Davidson
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