I don't know where I got the inspiration for this one, but I got it nonetheless.
I was going to title it The Fart.
By Jamye Waxman (but I'm not sure if that's a good title).
It started out slowly, hand under hair.
It started out slowly, to show me he’d care.
I waited each minute with my heart pumping fast.
How long will it take to get this bra unclasped?
I felt it got harder for him to move in his pants.
I watched with delight as his dick started to dance.
And just as it was about to happen, he let out a fart.
And then again, we were back to the start.
Don’t start it out slowly, I mumbled under my breathe.
Don’t start it out slowly, I don’t want to be here until death.
I took control and unzippered his fly,
It had to work, so I gave it a try.
I moved my mouth down over his cock.
I was hoping to make it as hard as a rock.
He moved his fingers right under my skirt.
Gently rubbing in circles, as if not to hurt.
Minutes later I was all wet.
Minutes later he was all set.
He climbed in on top of me and looked down at my face.
The warmth of his entrance, he feels good in my space.
We go this way and that for over five minutes.
And he has to stop so he doesn’t cum in us.
We stop for a while, and then pick up speed.
I’m thinking this would feel better if we’d just smoked some weed.
Back in the rhythm, I ride him on top.
And back in the rhythm he asks me to stop.
I’m going to explode, he yells out in time.
You have to stop, at least with the rhyme.
So, we quietly end both this poem, and the night.
His dick is too large and my pussy’s too tight.
Sex is all about stopping and starting.
But please, next time, can we do without farting?