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Love

Posted on May 10, 2012 BY A.H. Scott

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……….It’s ironic that some of those who are most vocal against same sex marriage are those who have dinosaur bones in their own closets. Archbishop Timothy Dolan, here in NYC, said that ‘it’s a sad day for the children’. WTF?!!!! Now, I know I’m probably going to feel a little pitchfork in my butt for saying that. But, c’mon, Catholic Church. You above all other institutions want to talk about sin. Look inward instead of outward for what sin truly is. And, then there’s Mitt Romney who says “I believe marriage is between one man and one woman”. And, when I heard him say that, I was waiting for him to add ..”I believe marriage is between one man and one woman….and one woman….and another woman. WTF? That’s the history of Romney’s own ancestors of multiple wives. And, of course, Newt (Mr. Married Again and Again) Gingrich. And, all the other hypocrites down the line speak morality for themselves only. So, those who have all these rights already (and never have to enter a court to validate them) are always bitchin and moanin about the destruction of the institution of marriage, if gay men and lesbian woman get married would live by the words they love to always spout; show some Christian compassion and brotherhood and – LET LOVE RULE..!!”

Copyright 2012

About The Author: Editor’s Note: To read more of A.H. Scott, go to the search bar at the top of the page: enter name and click green icon.

Artwork by Mikel Elam

Posted on April 13, 2012 by A. H. Scott

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……….Even though most of us won’t admit it so easily, we sometimes may judge others by appearance or perception. Yet, as the old adage goes, never judge a book by it’s cover. Leather bound books seem ever so strong. While a dog-eared paperback seems flimsy and easily broken. Just look beneath the cover and find something with a bit of magic inside. Some packaging may be shimmering. And, others may seem rusted. Alas, it is what is inside of that book that truly attracts. What may seem a cactus from afar, can actually be a soft blanket that caresses your flesh and soul.

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ABLAZE

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His fingers were like candles, lighting my flesh with every touch
Virility mixed with sweat and fervency, takes me to places too savage to mention out loud
Tiny hairs on my neck were the wicks those fingers ignited in a tender touch
Heat me up with your body thrusting like gladiator in the arena of lust
No doubt any woman in your midst is always left a humble miss
Sonnet of the bard or philosopher from ancient Rome are recounted with authority from your lips
Behind the grunt, you are a charming chap
No wonder why I ended up in your lap
Strands of my hair cascade over the mattress, as your tempting tide overtakes me
From afar, you seemed like a hard nut to crack
Yet, after a while of knocking on the castle walls, your resistance crumbled to my kisses
The fire is real within me now
Whispered words from you to me are the gift the angels have allowed
Pores are opened and drenched with delight
Ablaze with volcanic encounters with you in the night..

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Editor’s Note: To read more of A.H. Scott’s poetry, go to the search bar at the top of the page: enter name and click green icon. To see more artwork by Mikel Elam, do the same.

Hot and Cold

Posted on March 18, 2012 by A.H. Scott

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Tony –
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……….Well, let me first warn you about this poem. It’s definitely not erotic at all. It’s about domestic violence against women. I was inspired to write it after seeing an image on a poster of a battered woman. And, it just blew me away. “Hot and Cold” is the title and even if you don’t ever use this poem on your site, I just wanted to read it. Thanks for everything you’ve done in our collaboration so far, TW..;)

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HOT and COLD

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Hot is feel of every punch you leave upon my skin
Cauldron of words scorch the soul
Get it over with and leave me alone
It’s always the same, when you say it’s all my fault
My tears have all run dry
My heart has been hollowed out
Cold compress against my bruises I hold
Balled up fist cranked back for another punch
No longer do I scream, for you have taken my voice
Holding onto this floor, as if it were my safety blanket
Impression of your fist against my skin has formed several islands of pain
Black and blue and brown are some
Yet, those that have started healing are turning a yellowish hue
I’ll be the perfect wife
I’ll be the perfect cook
I’ll be the perfect f**k for you
Just don’t hit me again
I’ll be anything but your punching bag anymore
My voice has become a smothered whisper as I promise you on this floor
As your fist unclenched, you actually rub my back and walk away
Cold compress I press to my face
My soul is ripped and needs to be replaced
Heart that once was full of life, has now become shattered in your wake
I drag myself off this floor and make breakfast as I always do for you
You come into the kitchen, eat and everything is as if it never happened
A smile from your lips and a kiss on the cheek as you leave, lets my guard down again
That voice I had lost has started to peep, as I think about what I should do
Grabbing some things and tossing them in a bag isn’t easy, but neither is staying with you
I have a few hours before you come home
These are the moments I spend alone
Should I leave him?
Should I stay?
I walk into the bathroom with a lip bloodied and a tooth chipped and decayed
Cold water I splash across my face
My life here will end soon….
If I stay, it will be at his hands I shall leave
Yet, if I go, it will be my voice I am going to retrieve
Clothes are crumpled into a plastic bag and placed by the door
I look around at our home and it’s like I’m a stranger there now
Damnit, I can’t go
Damnit, I can’t stay
My heart says I love him
My body says no way
I’m GONE
I’m GONE
MY VOICE HAS RETURNED TO ME…..!!!

Copyright 2012

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About The Author: Draped in freedom’s spirit, A.H. Scott is a sizzling scribe of unveiling sensuality. Residing in New York City, this writer is armed with pouting pen of passion and pulsating digits pounding against keyboard. Between this lady’s manicured fingers, a snaggy stylus lacerates parchment and masticates digits against a misting keyboard towards a just climax literary longing. She’s a new voice and vision of fiction. who has been writing short stories and poetry ever since childhood.

Cute Recedes

Posted on March 17, 2012 by A.H. Scott

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CUTE RECEDES

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Cute has an expiration date
Maybe a few days past it’s prime of 21 it ends
Not so jiggly
Not so wiggly
And, sure as hell not giggly
Cute is in a battle that is always lost
Lost to a younger model of the YOU that you used to be
Stolen by gravity
What was cute when you are twenty, turns tragic in decades higher
Cute can straddle a spotlight
Yet, wise old bird can always gather enough stardust for itself
Cute can squawk in a chirp of mediocrity
Wise wing hums a melody of mature grace
Shall the keeper of the birdcage be blinded by the glitter?
Cute recedes….

Copyright 2012

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Editor’s Note: To read more of A.H. Scott’s poetry, go to the search bar at the top of the page: enter name and click green icon.

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About The Author: Draped in freedom’s spirit, A.H. Scott is a sizzling scribe of unveiling sensuality. Residing in New York City, this writer is armed with pouting pen of passion and pulsating digits pounding against keyboard. Between this lady’s manicured fingers, a snaggy stylus lacerates parchment and masticates digits against a misting keyboard towards a just climax literary longing. She’s a new voice and vision of fiction. who has been writing short stories and poetry ever since childhood.

Have Me

Posted on February 18, 2012 by A.H. Scott

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……….An invitation of intimacy doesn’t need to be a crass come on from a cheetah in heat. It can be as soft as a feather teasing an awaiting lover’s spine.

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HAVE ME

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Have my lips
I wait to be kissed by you
Have my eyes
I gaze with adoration for you
Have my nose
I smell your sweat and scent around me
Have my ears
I hunger for your whispers only to me
Have my breasts
I can feel your hands upon them
Have my nipples
I tremble with the thought of your teeth encasing them
Have my moldable middle
I pant with every kiss upon my soft stomach
Have my hip to the left
I feel your hands run slowly on my thigh
Have my hip to the right
I crave the exploration of your fingers on me
Have the silken web of mystery
I part my golden thatch for your eyes only
Have me the way you want me
I know that you do
From the moment we were introduced
Have me in the dusk of desire
Or, have me in midnight’s rising fire
Have me wholly
I lie listlessly waiting for you

Copyright 2012

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Editor’s Note: To read more of A.H. Scott’s poetry, go to the search bar at the top of the page: enter name and click green icon.

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About The Author: Draped in freedom’s spirit, A.H. Scott is a sizzling scribe of unveiling sensuality. Residing in New York City, this writer is armed with pouting pen of passion and pulsating digits pounding against keyboard. Between this lady’s manicured fingers, a snaggy stylus lacerates parchment and masticates digits against a misting keyboard towards a just climax literary longing. She’s a new voice and vision of fiction. who has been writing short stories and poetry ever since childhood.

Two Models on Bed

Posted on January 29, 2012 by A.H. Scott

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Tickle my fancy with your words
Run your pen against my mind
My eyes expand with heavy breath as I read across the page
Every word you’ve written me has taken me to an aroused stage
Tickle me soft, as the feathers of your quill make me laugh
Tickle me harder, as a golden pen scratches my surface
Bathed in words placed from your mind to mine
I’m enraptured by your pen always when I read your words
And, oooh, here comes another swirl against my brain again
My pupils dilate in a dance of desire for these letters
Lips purr with every pronoun dribbled onto each page
Fingertips roll lightly down my thighs, as each paragraph and sentence rise
Mmm, I love to be tickled in so many ways
Now, you know my secret
Your words just have me in this way…..

About The Author: Draped in freedom’s spirit, A.H. Scott is a sizzling scribe of unveiling sensuality. Residing in New York City, this writer is armed with pouting pen of passion and pulsating digits pounding against keyboard. Between this lady’s manicured fingers, a snaggy stylus lacerates parchment and masticates digits against a misting keyboard towards a just climax literary longing. She’s a new voice and vision of fiction. who has been writing short stories and poetry ever since childhood.
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Copyright 2012

Long Legs Reclining

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Posted on January 28, 2012 by A.H. Scott

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She had long legs
He was built like a tree
She wrapped those long legs around his back
Relishing this aspect of human nature, she waited to extract his sap
Against the window sill, they rocked back and forth
Strands of raindrops outside fell
Furling white curtain slightly blown by a breeze through the window
Her ass so tan and beautiful
Long black hair down her back was brushed aside by his roving hands
Down and up against the black metal sill they exhaled and inhaled each other
His crew-cut gave him a bit of fuzz on top
Her wine colored fingernails were like a roll on the top of his head
Pumping and humping on a rainy night
Intermingling on a window sill with no care or fright
A couple walking on the street below saw a curtain of white wave in the night air
Flag of fantasy’s surrender was what they saw
As the couple grinding gave into completion’s courtyard
Couple on the street tittered and stood watching
Lady with long legs and her man kept on bopping
Realizing that the curtain was no longer their mask of privacy
She laughed and he asked with a shrug, “Stop?”
Whisper came from the lips of wine, “Never”
Rain kept rolling
Body flow of desire kept growing
Couple on the street heard that moment, gazed at one another
A simple howl from the parted window sill occurred
Couple below didn’t need to say a word, as they kissed in the rain
Long legged lovely and crew-cut lumberjack of love held onto one another tightly
Couple above and couple below both found the rain to be quite magical on that breezy night

About The Author: Draped in freedom’s spirit, A.H. Scott is a sizzling scribe of unveiling sensuality. Residing in New York City, this writer is armed with pouting pen of passion and pulsating digits pounding against keyboard. Between this lady’s manicured fingers, a snaggy stylus lacerates parchment and masticates digits against a misting keyboard towards a just climax literary longing. She’s a new voice and vision of fiction. who has been writing short stories and poetry ever since childhood.
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Copyright 2012

TWS: Night Fever Series

Posted on November 30, 2011 by A.H Scott

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Two bodies dancing in the middle of a dance club are like a pair of electric eels tantalizing one another with heat. “The Dance Of Desire” takes the flesh to a place where the unbound mind wanders. The throbbing of many things takes over the lusty soul. Dance on.

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TWS: Night Fever Series

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A sexy red dress with no panties, no bra
They dance amongst a room full of strangers
Bodies sweaty and grinding to the music
It’s pulsating rhythms roll them into ecstasy
Deidre’s pink painted fingernails gently roll the dress upward
Hmmm, do you like what you see?
A few strands of pubic hair make your eyes water
But, as your eyes rise from around her thighs, there’s more
The low scoop of a neckline and no bra, gives her ideas
Two melons exposed for all to to see
But, you are the only one who can harvest mine
Deidre’s glossed red lips form a smile in knowing what happens next
On the dance floor, her tits are free, as are her inhibitions
Deidre’s hair is exposed to your eyes and it begins
Right then and the music takes us away
On the dance floor, two bodies amongst all the others
And, the grinding of our bodies is just another musical dream in the dim lights of strobe….

About The Author: Draped in freedom’s spirit, A.H. Scott is a sizzling scribe of unveiling sensuality. Residing in New York City, this writer is armed with pouting pen of passion and pulsating digits pounding against keyboard. Between this lady’s manicured fingers, a snaggy stylus lacerates parchment and masticates digits against a misting keyboard towards a just climax literary longing. She’s a new voice and vision of fiction. who has been writing short stories and poetry ever since childhood.

A.H. Scott

Posted on November 17, 2011 by A.H. Scott

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………..I couldn’t resist sending in this poem. It’s not sexy, but it’s definitely political. I was inspired to write it after the ouster of the Occupy Wall Street protesters in Zuccotti Park in New York City. Something that isn’t broadly mentioned in the media, is the fact that Diana Taylor, who is on the board of directors for the company that owns Zuccotti Park (Brookfield Properties), is the girlfriend of Mayor Michael Bloomberg. It got me to thinking about the power of connections and associations. Brookfield Properties were the ones who sent a letter to the Mayor’s office to get the protesters evicted in a post-Midnight raid. Now, coincidence is something I believe in. Yet, this action by the NYPD didn’t just come about out of thin air.

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So, this poem is titled, “PILLOW TALK SCREWS THE 99%”. I think the title explains it all. The games the rich and influential play are like puppet-masters to the marionettes of the masses.

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Lolly was a lobbyist who did her job well
Her bank account always filled to a swell
Loopholes written by others she slid through with ease
To all of her clients, she did what she had to do to please
Paul was a politician with a Pepsodent smile
He relished his position of snorting at the public well
No one would say he was a pig
Yet, his coffers of donations continued to get big
Bart was a banker who knew all the right palms to grease
This even brought lovely Lolly to her knees
Bedfellows and bed-gals do the Potomac Mambo between the sheets and lines of morality
Those who have access to the three sides of this twisted triangle, bare a leg and a wad of green
Lolly, Paul and Bart lived for an ultimate turn of the trick
For the ones who they adored screwing the most were
Jane Q. Citizen & John Q. Public
Pillow talk screws the 99%, again and again…..

About The Author: Draped in freedom’s spirit, A.H. Scott is a sizzling scribe of unveiling sensuality. Residing in New York City, this writer is armed with pouting pen of passion and pulsating digits pounding against keyboard. Between this lady’s manicured fingers, a snaggy stylus lacerates parchment and masticates digits against a misting keyboard towards a just climax literary longing. She’s a new voice and vision of fiction. who has been writing short stories and poetry ever since childhood.

Blond

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Posted on November 13, 2011 by A.H. Scott

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Some say blonds have more fun
Yet, a bashful blond is sly enough never to tell
Sitting there, she waits wearing something he bought her the last time they were together
Gazing in the mirror, she thinks of him
She’s in a haze of desire for his skin’s scent
His sweat against the tip of her tongue, caused her mouth to become wet
Bare ass so soft against a Louis XIV chair
The blond awaits to hear her front doorbell to buzz in her ear
Ring her bell
Lust begins to swell
And, to think some blonds don’t even need the peroxide to change their color
I guess some blonds never fake anything
Now, let that ring in your ears
Ring-ring-ring…;)

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Blond Gaze

About The Author: Draped in freedom’s spirit, A.H. Scott is a sizzling scribe of unveiling sensuality. Residing in New York City, this writer is armed with pouting pen of passion and pulsating digits pounding against keyboard. Between this lady’s manicured fingers, a snaggy stylus lacerates parchment and masticates digits against a misting keyboard towards a just climax literary longing. She’s a new voice and vision of fiction. who has been writing short stories and poetry ever since childhood.