This series is copyright to A.J. Heard
Not to be reproduced or copies without permission

 (For Christian)
A. J. Heard - October 2000

It has been weeks since we have seen each other
and I have thought of you, of us, often,
with feelings intense and overwhelming
that I have pondered in amazement,
playing them over and over,
til I have worn them down with handling
like writing on an old coin,
smoothed by warm fingers of memory.

And my skin . . .
awakened, a desirous question mark,
waiting to feel the contrasts, warm mouth
and hard enamel against the sensitive surface,
indenting, marking me with indelible tattoos
that make me yours, till even the memory
of a memory makes me restless in anticipation.

And I long to add to them
stacking them like manuscripts,
one atop the other,
or side by side like cherished books,
in a library, well used and worn,
in-between seeing you again.

CRADLED  - © A. J. Heard
November 2000

I went to sleep cradled in the scent of you
it comforted me all through the dark muffled night
till dawns light tiptoed into the room
where we had lay, and whispered me awake.

I awoke, the scent of you stroking my face and hair
kissing my lips, my nipples raised in expectation
as it play in the silken wet between my thighs . . .
and my fingers followed in profound homage.

A PARTY OF ONE  - © A. J. Heard

I'm having party
a sex party, a party of one
here in this bus, in this seat
where the head of the man in front 
is almost in my lap,
and my hand slides into my pants
unbuttoned, un-zipped, 
waiting to be courted by my fingers
while his snores change to snuffling
like a dog scenting some tantalising aroma
and my finger slips into jabenero like heat
slick as bacon grease, fragrant and loud
as Saturday night chili on Monday morning
and I ride my finger and this bus
coming in a wave, tsunami, coming into San Jose
hips bucking, arching up into my sweaty palm
as muscles clamp down wanting to feel you there.


Why do Motels make people horny?
All you can hear after midnight
is the sound of headboards smacking
against walls. A juiceless sterile sound,
hollow echoes unaccompanied by ecstatic moans
or whimpers of lust filled pleading,
no screams of unbearable pleasure . . .

I sit here in this room on this bed 
contemplating the bed bumping the walls 
from the room next door,
wondering what it is that made them hot,
or is it just him?

I try to picture her filled with lust,
being in a strange town, in a strange bed,
being fucked by a stranger-her

transformed by night's plush cloak 
and the unfamiliarity of this city
and the bed they lie in.

I try to hear her stifled gasps, swollen moans,
while her cunt, incandescent with desire,
is pushed up another 20 degrees
by repression a pressure cooker
sending the earthy/salty/sweat-aroma
of succulent sex wafting through thin walls
and smutty windows til it blankets the whole motel
penetrating every room, even mine
where I sit listening to these motel beds
banging these motel walls and missing you.

HOT  - © A. J. Heard

You make me hot. Like I've not felt
since I was in high school,
or 35 and intent on improving the reputation
of a tasty co-worker 17 years my junior.

The kind of hot where my knees get weak,
my cunt is baked succulent and swollen
while my stomach drops, pressing its self
against my backbone.

So hot I don't know which is hotter,
me or the sun basting my skin
through the open windows and I feel
like I'm breathing boiling water
in a sauna and my appetite has deserted me
to habitat in cooler climes
and even white chocolate cheesecake,
with raspberry purče, has no allure.

HOT. Where inhibition becomes
a burnt out hollow, full with rut
and the only thing that matters
is keeping it filled drop by drop
like acid eating away facades
till nothing is left
but instinct guiding me towards your cock,
like a penitent sinner seeking redemption.

BRICK RED  - © A. J. Heard

I did it again,
I told you I would.
Letting intensity grow
as we walked down streets
our final destination eons away,
savouring being together,
in intercourse of any kind.

Don't look so surprised,
he is a drug causing my lust to rise
like the first draw of winter sap
covering us in maple syrup kisses
as we stood on the corner
and the light waited for our attention,
causing me to shift, foot to foot
wanting to hold him
in the sticky wetness between my thighs
as the city wind added its Sirocco kiss
and time did not wait . . .

Arrival, and we gave impatience its head
racing down those stairs, bolting ourselves in
behind the brick red door . . . a fitting signal,
an indicator of wanton smoldering
that would now be free
to combust . . .
consume . . .
consummate . . .

Later, riding in dark's cloister
a stealthy finger searches
adding meaning to a vertical smile
that already misses his hands and fingers,
his tongue, his hardened sincerity.

YOU MAKE ME WANNA . . . - © A. J. Heard 

Why do you make me want to . . .
buy sexy underwear,
then . . .
not want to wear it, 
want to tease and be teased till I come,
just from hearing you tell me
how bad you want to fuck me . . .
want to fall into bed with you
whenever I see you,
and not leave again?

Why do you make me feel . . .
like I'm fifteen,
and discovering sex for the first time,
and it feels like I can have anything
I want, without explanations
and justifications, because it feels good
and you want it too,
because you don't obfuscate and diffuse
and try to objectify and channel
something that should never
be consciencely directed and contained?

Why do you make me want to be . . .
independently wealthy, 
so I can buy a flat in the city,
on the top floor, 
with surround sound windows and skylights,
furnished with a king size bed,
a mini refrigerator filled with icy, dry wine
and a clock that reads on the hour,
always--and makes it twelve noon forever?

Why do you make me feel so greedy,
like I can never have enough of you,
of us, walking, talking, fucking . . .
making me feel as if no one has
ever made me laugh before,
and making me cry when I come?

Why do you make me feel you,
filling up a space inside,
like it's got your name
tattooed on it,
as if I've been waiting 
for you to open it up,
making it yours?

Why do you have to fit,
like the missing piece of a puzzle
settling in like you've never been gone,
lying just beneath my breast bone,
under my heart?


Your name speaks revelry to my body,
nipples growing to hardened chocolate bits
to melt upon your tongue,
slipping between vertical lips,
opening in welcome.

Hopeful expectations unfulfilled
leave me heavy and full. A pitcher
filled to burst with want, I lie upon the bed
my hand tracing patterns on skin
stretched thin and sensitive at thoughts of you,
while fingers stroke and pump in emulation
of tongue and cock, bring physical release
but like an unseasoned meal, leaves
satisfaction waiting at the threshold.

Solitary walk along country road
holding conversations with the moon
I think about hands conjoined,
and walking city streets,
exchanging life stories
punctuated by kisses . . .

I stop,
enticed by the winds caressing kiss
and close my eyes
and all I can see is you
loving your lady under the radiant benediction
of the Blood Moon.

No part to be reproduced in any manner without the
express written permission of the author.

AND THEN I THOUGHT . . . (for Christian), 06-26-01
© A. J. Heard

In living each day
I do not wait for you,
but there is a small piece of me
that slumbers, like Sleeping Beauty,
waiting to be woken by your kiss.
The part of me that occasionally stirs,
on its own, surprised awake by your absence
and the realization that I have no answer
to the 'When?' that confronts
my persistent want of you.

Want, that makes me want-to glut myself
on your scent and all the colours
and shapes of your touch on my skin,
till the 'flavour' of you
against my tongue fills my mouth
with your bitter-sweet taste
and I feel you seeping from my pores . . .
and, when you come to me with fantasies
of licentious nights and days,
or just a moment of alley sex
that I can masturbate to later,
as I lie on my bed on white sheets
that sizzle under a skylight at noon,
with all the windows open
and an audience of Black-birds,
perched on stalking Sunflowers
who applaud with flapping wings 
and nodding golden heads
every thrust of hips and gasping moan
a choreographed ballet performed in Amber
while I miss you.

Missing you . . . 
all through the black nights
fading to cabolt 
and rose-turquoise mornings,
and I think, that's what it feels like
being with you. 

And you don't have to touch me,
or talk to me,
just being there with you
is just that way.

Is this love? I don't know.
I do know . . .
it's like the first winter snow,
or the first sight of Spring green,
hot lazy summer afternoons
making love behind slatted blinds,
all slippery and sticky
from slick heat sweat
and sex oozing from our skin,
because being with you
is just that way.

Yes, I've got you tangled
in my mind, like the sooty night,
or spangled starlight in my hair.
I can feel you breathing behind my heart,
a constant hug as real as the feel
of your arms around me.

And late at night
with all the lights capped,
I can hear you whisper in my ear
while your spider fingers trace
and tickle along ribs, and one bold
finger salutes now waking nipples
to memories of just such a moment
in time, and all of me opens
in anticipation of meeting
where we will play and love
through Morpheus' lush land
till morning calls out . . .
Awake! The dream begins!

LEATHER HAIKU (For Christian)
© A. J. Heard
February 5, 2001

Want claws inside skin
heart beats beneath passions fangs
feral unrestrained

Devours blood and bone
juicy offering inspired
exquisite release

Whip kissed, want unfurled
feasts on fleshes pleasures' pain
leather kisses sate

Limbs restrained,
love play
indolent licentiousness
delicate freedom.

Haiku © A. J. Heard
Stories, Haiku and Poems that can often be found at: &

KEEPING HOPE ALIVE (For Christian), 
© A. J. Heard, May 09 2001 

You bit me on the side of my neck
where I'm so very sensitive.
I thought, 'How amazing. No one
has ever done that', and held myself
still, hoping you would follow up,
knowing you could not, unless 
you threw me to the floor as you said
you wanted to do, right there
in front of the astonished eyes
of the Starbuck's employees
and all the passerbys.

A girl can always hope.

UNTITLED (For Christian), 
© A. J. Heard, May 09 2001

As has becime usual, you have left me,
open and wanting, hot as fire in the middle
of August in Death Valley.

So hot a replay in my mind of your kisses
starts an insistant throbbing in secret,
hidden high and deep, between the solid
flesh of my thighs and hips;and the rocking,
wagging vibrations of this *BART car is enough
to fan to incandesence this inferno that rages
uncontroled as I sit trying to mask
this voluptous celebration
of your effect on me.

A PARTY OF ONE (For Christian), 
© A. J. Heard, May 2001

I'm having party, a party of one here in this bus,
in this seat where the head of the man in front
is almost in my lap, and my hand slides
into my waiting pants, unbuttoned, unzipped,
waiting to be courted by my fingers,
while his snores change
to snuffling like a dog scenting
some tantalising aroma
and my finger slips into jabenero like heat
slick as bacon grease, fragrant and loud
as Saturday night chili on Monday morning
and I ride my finger and this bus
coming in a wave--tsunami, coming into San Jose,
hips bucking, arching up into my sweaty palm
as muscles clamp down wanting to feel you there instead.

LEAVE ME (For Christian), © A. J. Heard
February 03, 2001 

I want to touch you so deep you'll never forget,
not even when you sleep.
You'll feel the heat, sweltering, sticky,
like New Orleans in July or August.
A miasmic funk covering all your dreams,
calling your want to rise
in a tidal wave of longing for me.

I want to be closer to you than your next breath,
inscribe my name across your id . . . in declaration.
I am here!

I have given myself to you, a gift of many parts.
Flesh and bone, imagination, heart and lust.
I prepare myself in a ritual of magic and desire,
a sensuous spiral of wit and sexuality;
Eve and the Serpent now one.

You tease me--now I see you, now I don't.
Keeping me on arousal's tip toes, loosing
"trepidation, a low slung bitch" to nose
inside my mind, leaving narrow trails
of anxiety behind.

I want you to give me your heart,
then drowning in my kisses, 
take my intensity and wearing it
like a second skin, leave me,
so I can look forward to doing it again.

Not to be reproduced without the express written permission of the author.

A. J. Heard lives in Santa Cruz, Ca. with her numerous Fur Persons; where she dreams of moving to Santa Fe, NM and is a frequent contributor to the ERA web site, and has been posted on Suspect Thoughts web site, published in Blue Food, La Gazette and Staplegun Press and has a story in the forth coming anthology "Guilty Secrets II" edited by M. Christian.