A Wine Affair.

You get out of bed hanging on to things.

You go to bed hanging on to things.

I am a suitor to wine, she has become my life vine.

A sleeping pill – not quite.

A crutch – not quite.

She is a smooth sultry succulent sensation.

We have a hankering to hold hands.

At times I question her motives,

she answers with sweet drops of love on my lips.

She tongues me.

Her body is an appreciation of allurement.

Cultivating curves so cool to caress.

My finger always discovers the dimple in her bottom.

Most are blonds – I always hold them gently.

It’s like foreplay – screw the top and relish in the rest.

Some guys put notches in their bed frame,

I place trophies in the recycling bin.

Sometimes I’m detected,

Bill Clinton and I can commensurate,

stains spill the story.

Nevertheless we retain our relationship.

With her, the stem of my glass is always firm.

Yes, she is pleased as I spin her skirt in my glass.

I see her around town, we glance, she states her price.

I pay for this pleasure and take her home disguised, hidden in a bag.

At times, in restaurants, her emergence embarrasses me.

You know, love is like that, especially with passionate relationships.

I do love her.

And when that bottle of Sauvignon Blanc sits in a in a cool sweat.

I know we are both ready for a delightful evening.