If I were you, I would touch myself
whenever I noticed I was alone
full-clothed and potentially unobserved
I'd slide my caress across my breasts
feel the tightening points of scrutiny
beneath flimsy layers of modesty
so ill-deserved.
When away from home, I'd take
opportunity every time
to straighten and smooth the bird-print dress
I'd put on to conceal what is rightly mine:
alone, such hips and thighs, and the rising waist,
all the curves of around and back
I would stroke and occasionally smack
in place - as if ever they weren't - and occasionally
pluck, quite lazily, with distracted thoughtless mind,
as if at a lute, or deliberately, as if to scold
some too-intimate creep and cling,
astutely, discretely slipped in
and fondling parts that are mine to hold
oh, mine alone.
Each day home, finally,
I'd fling my wayward impetuous dress
away, and cast off every underthing,
repudiating their too presumptuous grasp and sway
- glancing once at the window, just to be sure
I would stand in a state of sweet array
then fall back onto pillows, with spreading locks
and my safecracker's hand would tumble and play.
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