Married To The Buddha

My girlfriends call him Bodhisattva.
I call him Buddhapest.
With those long dangley ear lobes that he refuses to pierce.
I tease him about the way he talks.
Like he's still walking Jersey streets after 30 years as a California boy.
And those Albert Einstein eyebrows that I chew on in bed
and muss up in public places
or otherwise groom for him
when the occasion calls for a more respectable presentation.
Gentle brown eyes that beg me
to cut his curly salt and pepper hair
that he swears he can take no more.
His passionate kisses fill me with his sweet breath.
His strong hands with slender fingers, adorned with my wedding ring and his father's star sapphire, play me like his drums--soft and gentle, hard and intense
till his forearms ache.
He implores me to grab his ass, tense and over amped with so much energy he fears he'll explode.
And his chest, with man breasts and nipples aways erect.









I imagine him in his army green tee-shirt hugging their form.
And his bleach stained jeans with the hole,
perfectly placed for a discreet peek of his likewise perfect cock.
He sings and I still tremble. I glance at him with his glasses on and the sight invokes a sigh.
Seven years and counting...


2000
Yab*Yum