Post by goldenmyst on Mar 18, 2020 14:03:01 GMT -6
Chamomile Touch
She is the priestess with a perk like an espresso served with a lilt to deflect pupil ennui; a sonneteer she sheaves her sentences into bushels with the Bard the main attraction. Except for the two women in their roaring twenties who sit like bookshelves with me the hardback wedged between. The belles thumb through the essay in my lap to glean the gold of an older scholar.
Their ladyfingers leaf through the notebook. With each flutter of paper, their touch penetrates into my zippered ziggurat like cuneiform on my clay rod. Lest my pyramid rise too far I grasp the lovelies wrists like a male gone amok.
These orchids wrest themselves from my masculine grip. The frilly of the fillies is stronger than the best-made harness. Their vixen velvet vanquishes like an army of love. Our mistress of literature issues her lectern decree for the lavender-scented lovelies to escort me out by feminine means of chamomile touch.
The two girls guide my hands up against the wall. They massage my derriere while the redhead rolls my hip into her thighs with her Rapunzelean locks enfolding me to as though from a tower where she waits for me to climb into her arms while her hand slips into the front pocket of my jeans where she explores the Jutland Peninsula of my Denmark. The Dean walks by and says, “This is an accredited college of liberal arts not a house of ill repute.”
The redhead says, “We are dually enrolled in a massage academy. John was gracious enough to allow us to practice on him in spite of his Anhedonia or inability to feel pleasure. So you see it isn’t what it looks like.”
The Dean replies, “Carry on.”
The blonde pushes my legs apart with a jujitsu thrust of her knee. She says, “You didn’t tell on my fib. If you let me and Sandy Xerox your Shakespeare essay she and I will do collaborative fiction designed for your pleasure reading. Is that a deal?”
“If you can write cheeky tales for hapless males, what stays your pens from more scholarly authorship?”
The redhead says, “John, spare us having to read the misogynist fantasy, Taming of the Shrew, to write this paper. We love the Bard in his many fold comedies, tragedies so beautiful they make me weep and sonnets whose author could make me swoon for many a moon. But this aberration of male chauvinism is beyond even tears. Take this cup away from us and we will give you a ballpoint thrill.”
I reply, “The teacher said we may collaborate on our papers. Hence, my reward shall be to become a more enlightened man by engaging the feminine side in a discourse.”
My two literary accomplices say, “Tis signed, sealed, and delivered from our hearts to yours.”
She is the priestess with a perk like an espresso served with a lilt to deflect pupil ennui; a sonneteer she sheaves her sentences into bushels with the Bard the main attraction. Except for the two women in their roaring twenties who sit like bookshelves with me the hardback wedged between. The belles thumb through the essay in my lap to glean the gold of an older scholar.
Their ladyfingers leaf through the notebook. With each flutter of paper, their touch penetrates into my zippered ziggurat like cuneiform on my clay rod. Lest my pyramid rise too far I grasp the lovelies wrists like a male gone amok.
These orchids wrest themselves from my masculine grip. The frilly of the fillies is stronger than the best-made harness. Their vixen velvet vanquishes like an army of love. Our mistress of literature issues her lectern decree for the lavender-scented lovelies to escort me out by feminine means of chamomile touch.
The two girls guide my hands up against the wall. They massage my derriere while the redhead rolls my hip into her thighs with her Rapunzelean locks enfolding me to as though from a tower where she waits for me to climb into her arms while her hand slips into the front pocket of my jeans where she explores the Jutland Peninsula of my Denmark. The Dean walks by and says, “This is an accredited college of liberal arts not a house of ill repute.”
The redhead says, “We are dually enrolled in a massage academy. John was gracious enough to allow us to practice on him in spite of his Anhedonia or inability to feel pleasure. So you see it isn’t what it looks like.”
The Dean replies, “Carry on.”
The blonde pushes my legs apart with a jujitsu thrust of her knee. She says, “You didn’t tell on my fib. If you let me and Sandy Xerox your Shakespeare essay she and I will do collaborative fiction designed for your pleasure reading. Is that a deal?”
“If you can write cheeky tales for hapless males, what stays your pens from more scholarly authorship?”
The redhead says, “John, spare us having to read the misogynist fantasy, Taming of the Shrew, to write this paper. We love the Bard in his many fold comedies, tragedies so beautiful they make me weep and sonnets whose author could make me swoon for many a moon. But this aberration of male chauvinism is beyond even tears. Take this cup away from us and we will give you a ballpoint thrill.”
I reply, “The teacher said we may collaborate on our papers. Hence, my reward shall be to become a more enlightened man by engaging the feminine side in a discourse.”
My two literary accomplices say, “Tis signed, sealed, and delivered from our hearts to yours.”
