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Poem

Scent of men and sweat pervade this little space
away from vast expanse of exercise machines at this gym.
Here they strain beneath laden bars
or lift and lower black and silver weights held in their hands.

A delicious black-haired male with slim yet sturdy legs 
exposes muscles which tense as he steadily pumps iron.
Beautiful and intense dark orbs  peer into the mirror
at the biceps of his own taut and tawny arms.

Now he lies upon his back and hoists a bar.
The sound of his laborious exhalations permeates the room.
He doesn’t notice the pair of paler eyes on him
(I also watch the mirror. . . but more discreetly).
My softer respirations match his rhythm.
Then. . . with his final reps come virile groans.
Inside my head. . . I moan and I see myself
above his rippled abdomen and heaving chest,
pressed against his sweet, dark perspiring skin.

The fragrance of my lingering Taboo
mingles with his musk.
I see him glance my way, and I avert my eyes.
If he takes to older women as well as to the younger girls
and if he fancies ones like me - robust and voluptuous -
not just the females delicate and slender as reeds ,
perhaps he is breathing in the essence that is me,
and for that one moment in time. . . I’m the fantasy.


For Cyndi MACMILLAN'S "MY SPICE BOX: SENSUAL POETRY. ADULTS ONLY.Poetry Contest"

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