Sex, Kink, and the Erotic: Two Poems by Raina K. Puels

she tortures me & then we sing american pie

Furtive Poet spanked me
& asked me to count       i resented the sting
resented the kindergarten exercise

(i called him Daddy but it always felt hollow)

one night he asked if he could tie me up
i said i wasn’t sure       but
he didn’t hear that & ratcheted my wrists
down to his bed frame       my numb dumb body
silent as vanilla

three years later Sassy asks me
on a scale of 1-10 how bad do you want it to hurt?
i tell her seven & she bodyslams me
rakes her knuckles against my sternum
i hate it so good & never once think to moan stop

(euphoria eats all language)

she strings my wrists & one ankle to her frame
hoists me to balance on a glass jack
sharp as a stegosaurus

i’m shaking & sweating
when she brings me to the carpet       steps on my chest
twines lines around my toes & squeezes
until i scream & laugh & scream again

her bra is blue with white polkadots
mine is black lace now dusted with jute

she unties me       cradles my head in her lap
for a second i wonder if she is my mother
& try not to drool as i age twenty years in two minutes

then she gets out her ukulele & we sing

celibacy has been fine / easier than imagined

magic wand rumbles bestow the desired
lazy /easy / get-the-job-done       deliverance
maintenance sex for the self

neglected dildos dusty bookshelf ornaments
cervix wilting but afraid if lube-watered
will cry mucous & never stop

i’m penetrated therefore i am       sad
i’m not penetrated therefore i am       sad

alone i’m rarely booted up
maybe by a brush of my own nipple
leather whips in a poem about horses
grapefruit juice filling a papercut

i only find sadness
in tracing these familiar curves with intent

no disbelief can suspend
the intimacy i have with my own thumbs
thumbs i stare at for as long as i’m awake

one dissociated week
my dopamine brick & i averaged
eight hours of touch time a day
fifty-sixish hours of edging
doesn’t it feel good to touch?

who knew sexuality was a switch
flicked by fingers in the dark
or / not fumbled at all

Author’s note: the line: “doesn’t it feel good to touch” is from Marshall Davis Jones’ poem “Touchscreen.”

About Raina K. Puels

Raina K. Puels is a queer/poly Boston-based writer, educator, & kinkster who really loves Lil Peep. She holds an MFA from Emerson College. You can read her writing in The Rumpus, PANK, Gay Mag, & many other places you can find on her website: rainakpuels.com. Follow her on Twitter: @rainakpuels.