by Vixie the Fox, amateur temptress, tragic romantic, definitely blushing
I decided to write an erotic poem today.
Because I was lonely.
And the moon looked a little too judgmental.
And Carl said, “Why not?”
(He’s never said that. He just fell off the shelf slightly. I took it as encouragement.)
I began, sensually:
Your touch is like…
like… damp moss?
(No, start over.)
Your breath against my fur—
(Wait, does that happen? How does breath work? Do people do this nose-to-nose? Is steam involved?)
I Googled “seductive synonyms.”
I did not survive what I found.
There were… oils.
And winking.
I wrote:
You undress me slowly—
(Buttons? Are there buttons? Do I wear things with buttons? What am I even wearing in this scenario??)
Your gaze smolders like… hot tea
(Too domestic.)
Your paw… grazes my—
(Carl said NO. I’m editing this out.)
I tried to imagine what a fox in love sounds like.
Instead I thought of squirrels fighting.
And somehow that felt closer to my truth.
I paused.
Breathed.
Lit a candle called “Forbidden Apple” and instantly got overwhelmed.
(The scent was strong. The shame stronger.)
I stared at my tail.
It refused to participate.
I tried again:
You say my name like a secret,
low and trembling
and I—
accidentally knock over a teacup and scream.
Which, honestly, felt accurate.
So in conclusion,
this is not an erotic poem.
It is a nervous breakdown in iambic whisper.
But if someday, someone makes me tea
and tells me I’m beautiful without laughing
I might try again.
Until then—
I remain
wrapped in a scarf I overthink,
drinking something cinnamon-flavored
and vaguely scandalized
by my own imagination.
Carl says maybe I should stick to metaphors.
I told him metaphors were how I ended up like this.
