He chased her across
the bed that night
twenty years ago,
face buried in her lap,
lapping and licking
and tongue-fucking
her musk-drenched
pussy with such vigor
that her first orgasm
leapt up through her
from an sea so immense
the swooning depth of it
frightened her;

and with each
next orgasm
she crept a few inches
back across the bed
crying No and Ah and Oh,
her mouth protesting
her flood-tide’s crests,
her mind entranced
and terrified and
loosening towards
the full chaos of water.

He was determined to make
her cum and how -- to prove
his bull-worthiness, a stud
showing this young woman
how much a tongue
itself could fuck:

A yet he found himself
astonished at how much
began to flow from her,
her sea-ripe so heady
juices swilling round
his nose and cheeks,
greasing up his chin.
Her pleasure’s proper
and distant trickle
soon become a pour
and then roar of limitless
fish lube; her thighs
gripped tight around
his temples, her fingernails
raked savagely at his back.

So full and hot was the
measure of this woman’s
pleasure that he felt
his tongue begin to simmer
like a victual bumping
in a witch’s cooking pot
amid the newts and bones.
His cock was rock-hard,
straight up along his belly,
humping at the sheets
in maddened blind need,
desperate to change places
with that tongue, to
douse its hard hurtful fire
in that raging rough
ripe sea burning
between her knees.

She backed up all the way
trying to escape his tongue;
inch by inch her ass lifting
up and back, scooting wetly
across the bed, until at last
no further retreat was possible:
And so, with with her
shoulders crammed
against the headboard,
she fully surrendered to
his mouth and tongue,
weakly and then fiercely
waving a white flag of bliss.

Hands clenching at the pillows,
and thighs split wide as heaven,
ass lifting up and up from the bed,
some river thus unleashed in her,
rising in sweet undulate
adagios to a tumultuous  roar;

and when her pleasured
brain thought there could be
no more honey in her loins
the real rouge rollers began
striding in, rising high and
higher from her maddened womb,
threatening to drown
whatever sanity remained
in her over-pleasured mind.

She felt some wild soul
stir and waken deep inside,
riding on the back of
those blue walls of rapture,
an old, old creature
of fin and cunt
and banshee holler:
a wilder woman than
her faith allowed,
an error which made
all church bells clamor
their petrified bronze:

After an hour straight of spasms
she could take no more of it;
there was terror in the
magnitude in her body’s
pour and roar and soar.
She thrashed her head
back and forth against the headboard,
no longer sure where she ended
and the goddess in her began,
where land and sea were
ever shored again:

The fear grew louder then
loudest when she felt
something too huge
approach, rising up
like a tsunami from that
sloppy wet place were
the young man’s head
was busied: A wave
of such black height
and ferocity it loomed
to drown her world
that night and forever.

She found herself now hitting
the man’s head with force,
gripped with fear at how
much control would
forever soon tear loose:
Stop! Stop! she hissed,
flailing at him with her fists.

At first he thought it
was her passion, but
when the blows grew
sharp he paused, his
sore tongue at
some crest of doom:
And ceased. As if from
miles below his face
finally pulled free of
her loins with with a hot,
wet, wearied and defining plop.
The look he gave her was sheer
dazed wonder, like a castaway
come at last to shores
not found on any map.

He lay his face against one
of her warm slick thighs
and drifted in her swoon,
the night become a singing sea
which drifting the bed
in a receipt neither
could understand or repeat
through all the years that followed.

Distantly he felt the sticky
warmth of his sperm along his belly.
He had so wanted to fuck
and how that pussy
but her sea-soaked orgasms
aroused him up and over
without a touch from her.

Eventually they laughed
and smoked more pot,
listening to Tom Petty
on his stereo.
She showered and then dressed
and he drove her home,
neither saying anything
while the stars roared overhead.

She never let a man eat
her out that way again
and he never found another
woman whose water
precipice rose so high.

All these years later she
thinks about that night,
not so much of him -- young fool,
he was chasing other quim
the next week -- but about
how high and far and loose
that dark wild thing can rise.
She walks her dogs at night
up on the hills behind her house,
hearing the rumble of the ocean
in the distance and deep within
as she recalls his tongue
between her legs. The music
it produced glows still in
the night, like noctiluca,
risen up from wet depths
on wings she’ll never name,
much less embrace, though
she’s tried in the loving of her life.

And the man now works
a trawler in the Bering Strait,
heaving huge pots overboard
into the Arctic Sea. It’s fishing
for Alaskan Crab, a good buck
but dangerous. His mother
on the phone keeps asking why
he has to fish that way,
but of such things he keeps
silent, out of respect for a
truth none would understand,
for he’s sailing on those
brutal seas searchng
for that night’s equivalent
in a rogue wave or white whale.

The both of them live on
as consequences of that night,
careening up and down the
monster swells of a flood-tide
her rapture birthed,
votives of a deranging mystery,
a clench-and-drenching souse.