Itchy

An itch to be scratched -A lust unmatched -An empty bed -"Let's go!" she said.And on the summer's afternoonwe loved until we saw the moon. Exhausted, laying there exposedupon my belly, I proposedshe scratch my back to top it off -and soon she did, so soft, so soft. Nails as sharp as 'Wiltshires' creeplike slugs upon a compost heapacross my sweaty skin untilI feel an itch she can't quite kill. "Just up a bit." She hears me say."Down a bit...the other way.Up a tad. You've gone askew.Slide across a touch or two.A little harder. Damn it! Swat it!Keep going, yes, you've almost got it.Listen woman, can't you tell.You're nowhere near it. Bloody Hell!" I fling my body in the airand land atop the carpet bareGrinding hard upon my backsearching for a pointy tacto give me what I really need -a decent scratch that makes me bleed Bewildered, she is staring down,as losing it, I go to town.Raising up my back, I arch it,slamming hard down on the carpet. My body parts are flicking, hectic,like I'm turning epileptic.A book! A knife! A nice high heel!Give me something I can feel But suddenly, like when it reared,my itch just vanished...disappeared. I rose, so pleased, my love to telland found that she was gone as well. The door was slammed, the lock was latched.Our race was run...and I was scratched!