G D A E (for a violinist)


Give me your mind, let me turn you on.
Emotionally .

Forget about the world, all those problems.
Do strive to be fulfilled, satiated.

Give me your body, let me enlighten you,
please you, release you.

Drown in desire, quick, slow, slow, slow.
Delighted in my touch, my moves, my words.

Let me play you,
from a slow movement to a scherzo.
I’d help you to feel:


I’d caress:
your breasts
Your mouth
Your mind.



The Researcher

The way she approached her research
never gave up
It was always a pleasure
to work with her.
Sense of humour
confident in her abilities

The way she ate a melon
had always made him
she knew the effect on him.
He needed to have her
at his table
on a picnic
by a pool
on a train
in his car
in his bed.



My Back Pages (for Sharon)

MOSCOW 1.jpg

        Everyone has a soulmate …

….somewhere; only problem is that we could be dealing with thousands of miles of travel as opposed to someone who lives just around the corner.

For some, their soulmate might be in the middle of Moscow. Not cheap or easy to get a cab back home to Blighty from there.

I did Moscow by bus once to see a soulmate: not too difficult.
You take the 32a from Victoria, a 33 out of Paris Nord, change at Stuttgart to 7b, then a Moscow bound 2A. Though the last time I did that journey my soulmate was out!

It was along time ago, as Dylan said, ‘but I was younger then than now..’

I was a man of action: climbing mountains, dangling from helicopters, fighting wolves…
…. and that was just to get to my job at the BBC studios in Shepherds Bush.

Was it worth it for the romance? Er, not after three days on a bus. There was a long way to go before the caring, loving, sharing would start or surface.

On the Moscow bound bus we had dogs, monkeys, tramps all riding for free on the roof…. and that was just the number 49 bus from Sheffield to Victoria.

Moscow Monica was kind though, she shared food, she would have meat, fish, fresh fruit which was rare for Moscow. I sometimes survived on cornflakes and fruit.
Her house was modest compared to St Johns Wood but it was home for her and at times the garden shed was where she she wanted me to be …. but I’d rather not say what went on there. Though I can tell you, I soon got rid of the goats, I wasn’t sharing a bed with those characters.

Anyway, as you the reader (well I hope you’re out there somewhere) will have guessed it didn’t work out. Love is all you need is not true, you need a shower, bed, cotton sheets, a kitchen and food other than cornflakes everyday. Though at times breakfast was romantic apart from the one eyed cat sitting on the table waiting for you to finish your food.

I did the journey six times. Monica did warm to me eventually but then two guys, hunting types, from Outer Mongolia arrived. Is was either me or them. They had guns, knives, horses. I had two out of date copies of the Radio Times. Who would a girl choose?

I returned to Blighty, head intact, heart in one piece, my foot in plaster.

The Plaster?

Well, we did have sex in the garden shed but have you tried that with six goats looking on and and a scythe hanging from the wall? Don’t try it, it was a foolish idea.

As the Russians say,..

goats in the shed,
comrades in the bed.


Start of an occasionally series of writing short stories in one session with little editing.



A Train can Travel Fast or Slow

A train can travel fast or slow,
the driver needs to take care,
not too quick, not too slow,
driving is an art.

Her hand slowly slipped off the table,
to slide down to find that part of him
that would please her, tease her,
release her.

The train roared on, driven by a driver
eager to get to to the next part of the journey.

Her hand always found its destination.
Timing is important,
never work in haste,
a driver should be considerate.

The speed of the train slowed,
an assured hand in control.
One cannot arrive too quickly.
The arrival is everything, full of expectation and pleasure.

The joy of a journey travelled and attained is everything,
never to be rushed or taken for granted.

She never set off too early,
she was experienced in the art of travel,
a woman who never raced to her destination.

Each journey travelled she was


Dangerous Woman (for M…)

She slowly slipped into my life
then later she slipped into my bed.

My dangerous woman,
bright, quiet, quick witted,
driven to make her mark, to make a change.

Not easily shaken,
She drives on, a forward movement
until she reaches her goal.

Her daily illicit affair with data, rolls on,
nothing is consigned to paper.
Her eyes scan, decode,
Her fingers caress the keyboard.

Tenacious, relentless.
Not a woman to suffer dangerous people.
Fingers upon her keyboard ease their way
through the maze, to avoid online traps.

There can be no easy road for her.
It will always be a long, winding journey,
Often travelled, seldom with an end location.

Yet in bed, she is……
Carefree, a willing lover,
a relentless lover in pursuit of pleasure.

A kiss, a caress, my slow movements to
reveal her, reassure her, to undress her.
Another kiss, at first short, then long.
A slow caress to open her mind, her senses, her body.

Her perfume is intoxicating,
I want to drown in pleasure
to make her high, to entice her.

My red headed lover sighs,
needs to be taken on a sensual journey,
to be sexually, emotionally high.

Her whole body needs my touch.
I caress her breasts, move my mouth down
to caresses the inside of her thighs.
My tongue slowly opens her,
to relax her, release her.

Deep in bed she slowly slips her thighs around my waist.
Now I push, slow, shallow, deep, slow.
Her her whole body quivers with delight,
slow, shallow, pause, deeper.


Russian Lady


Russian Lady

She wanders around the
streets built by Caesar.
Alone, driven by a desire
to find an emotional home.

Quiet, inquisitive, a seeker
of something she cannot explain.

She feels, she writes,
seeks a fulfilment
that is always beyond her grasp.

I wonder about her,
wish her peace;
hope she finds what she is looking for.

A love deep and sincere.
A home warm and clear
of strife and fear.


He Thought of Her


He thought of her
walking through a dense wood
or on a desserted shore.

Lost in her thoughts.
Happy to be away from him.

She should escape more with her thoughts.
Explore the tranquility of space.
Massage her inner soul.

Yet when she returns
He knows she will want him.
Need his assured touch
His mouth, his love.

He thought of her
walking through the garden
skipping through the door
no need of anymore solitude.

His room.
His bed.
He waits.
Silence before a storm of desire.


If I get Inspired


If I get inspired I’ll write you a short prose piece, something to turn you on, words to prepare you, excite you, entice you, To make you sigh, to fly to a higher place as fingers explore, seduce, slip inside you.

I want to initiate, facilitate, escalate your desire to make yourself breathless beyond your illicit dreams. Oh, to take you, lead you to a long perfect release.


Busy fingers find you, tease you, slip away. I wait for any movement, any slight inclination.

The pleasure rolls on, until it dissipates your need.