Sign up to EliteSkills

Joe has the cleanest bed, white cloud pillows and cotton sheets
with green-apple kisses tucked into the folds of the comforter.
Everyone looks at me puzzled, "Why that man?" and he grins
behind his RayBans, replying "I have a 12" dick." I never confirm
nor deny, hide my bruises and match his smile, "Yeah, that's it,"
and over-kiss him, he says, but he tastes like summer rainbows
after a long heart-storm, and sometimes I just can't help myself.

Joe has the sweetest smile, though he rarely uses it except
for his children on the weekend, and for me when I show up
dragging my gin bottle and sex toys to his house at 4:30am,
yelling, "Damn it, Joe, let me in!" He laughs the whole time
I pour shots and throw my clothes over his furniture, calling me
"Baby Wild," and no, it's not Love, it's something even better
than Love, because his bed is a sky-dive into abandoned bliss.

There are nights I want to tear up his sheets, to see what sins
lie beneath the pad of his pillow-top mattress, but the best sex
involves 2 roofs and no questions, so I am content to drift
side-ways and sleepy against his shoulder, settling into routines
of nonchalant speculation while sleep shadows the afternoons
we playfully spend tearing down our little defenses.

"You should smile more, Joe, you look like a murderer," I yawn
while he spins my hair around his fingers, making yarn-strings
tangles for my hairbrush to sort out later. "You should sleep,"
he replies, "so I can sharpen my knife and finish killing you..."
but I never sleep like he never smiles, and the soft white cotton
never tells our secrets.