Amy Barlow Liberatore… stories of lost years, wild times, mental variety, faith, and lots of jazz

Category Archives: Sex

Dear Straight Guys,

It’s not like darts
Not if you’re smart
Not “point and shoot”

It’s not like b-ball
Not at all
She’s more than a rim to hit
and webbing to fall through

She’s neither mark nor target

The real woman lies beyond
what you’ll see
when you see her

As much as she wants you
(and make damned sure she wants you,
or we’ll have more than words, little man)
she needs even more

What lies within us is a world
An ecosystem
A universe of the delicate sublime,
of intricate, meandering passages

She’s a labyrinth and you must
must must must
caress the key, finesse the lock
with time and care, the kind
you’ve never shown your own

So talk to her
Let her guide you
She has places that need
the same soft kisses you place on her mouth
down south at the delta

And just in case you still think
you hold all the power, here’s a thought

After you don the raincoat to
dance in the lovely dew, think about this:
Whose parts will disappear in the meeting?
Who welcomes in, and who is swallowed up?

She has unfathomable fathoms
of phantom bliss
Remember that
from the very first kiss

© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For ABC Wednesday, we are on the letter F. That’s for “finesse,” you naughty children. Also on the Tuesday Platform at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads! Amy


Sixteen, never been sexed
Sipping pilsner pilfered from the basement fridge
Sssssh, out the back door
Stripping down to go skinny-dipping with… Johhhhhn

Time, place, the most potent of opportunities
We slip into steaming midnight summer water
His member more sumptuous than tight jeans ever hinted
My breasts afloat, begging to be bobbed for like juicy ripe apples

My ache, my throb – will he sense it,
and act on this rhythmically pulsing moonlit mystery

I always craved what was not mine for the taking
Swimming naked
with gay boys

© 2009 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Margo Roby’s Wordgathering: Summer Tryouts and my little swimming pool, Poets United!

Today is the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, the beginning of the Gay Rights Movement in New York City. Gay men had finally had enough of being beaten and sodomized by police; one man picked up a cobblestone in from of the Stonewall Bar and threw it, and calamity and justice began with that one brick. (I know some say that riots were technically in the wee hours of June 28, as the bars closed… but get real. Do you wake up from a hangover on a Sunday and say, “Wow, I really drank too much at 2 this morning?” It was very, very late the night before.)

So why this poem today? Because my very proud and OUT Best Friend Forever, John Bickle, with whom I share many skinny dips and much mischief in our early days, also celebrates his birthday today. He said, when he saw the TV reports of the Stonewall Riots, he thought to himself, “It’s an omen.”

No, Stonewall didn’t make him gay. God did.

But anyway, happy birthday to my BFF, and may you continue to play piano bar and wow Philadelphia for many years to come! (His usual gig is at Knock, so you Philly friends, get you butts over to their Piano Room and hear a phenomenal tenor – and great pianist!) Love, Amer

At Sunday Scribblings, we were asked to create a poem around the word “befuddled.” Not “bewitched,” nor “bothered,” nor “bewildered,” unfortunately… but then, that one was already written! (That’s for my music buddies.) A little gender-bender limerick for y’all. Amy

The Right Stuff?

A man with whom I often cuddled
Confessed to becoming quite muddled
Our sex was okay
But he told me today
With Bradley, he’s far less befuddled

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

This came from a “wordle,” a group of words you can form into a block of art; to create one yourself, click HERE.

Thanks to whichever poet’s blog contained the block (and I apologize that you remain anonymous, I was all over the place today).   I can’t reproduce it here, but all the words from the block are in bold. Enjoy! Amy

FIRST TIME (wordle)

Smoldering like an ash-pit and
lush with promise, but
clunky teenage moves
His one hand, awake, cupped my breast
The other was passed out under my back
then resurfaced to hold my head for
a quick nibble at that well-hung boy
The First Time


Never one to take instruction
well, welcome to

That’s me, going to hell.
Hand-basket by Longaberger.
So say the Bible thumpers

Because I insist my daughter’s
Divinely made, perfect…
and, yes, she loves women

If all she did daily
was love women,
I’d be worried, but fortunately,

she does other things, too:
art, music, movies;
she has a full life.

“I’ll bet you and Lex
do stuff besides
hanging in bed being straight!”

That’s right, baby, it’s true
We get up
sometimes for breakfast, lunch, dinner…

(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Thanks to Riley for permission to use her experiences for this poem.


Love is not best expressed
through sex, yet sex sells
on the squawk box. From
VH1 videos to BET, you
can bet our youth are so
deprived of anything more
thank the depravity of the
booty call. Of women as
moving, bump and grinding
blow-up dolls. Of men with
faces only a mother could
love, whether country stars
(ten-gallon disguising their
hair plugs and plaiding their
paunches), Promise Keeping
Brothers who still leer at
the camera, or rappers who
pull teeth in favor of diamond
implants. These images imbed
like a cancer; only one answer:
The parental counter-punch.
Demonstrating healthy, loving
relationships. Turn off the
TV and unplug the modem;
talk about what lies beyond
the birds and the bees. Soul.
Spiritual bonding. Looking
your partner in the eye, not
sneaking peeks at anatomy.
Friendship first; hormones in
harness; self-esteem before
chasing the false, fleeting
dreams of sexy steam.

Warning!  This is about condoms and sexual responsibility and the futility of abstinence education!! Hey, I tell the girls, “No umbrella, no singin’ in the rain!”


In this age of The Pill
Please remember, the thrill
isn’t all it is cracked up to be

While you scope out the cuties
Do be mindful that cooties
will be waiting if you’re condom-free

There are Abstinence teachers
and well-meaning preachers
who will tell you to marry ‘fore “sailin'”

If you take my advice,
you will think once or twice
about abstinence and Bristol Palin.

It’s not only the babies
but some toxic “maybes”
passed on through that condom-free sex

HPV, Herpes, AIDS
the Incurable Shades
will haunt all who do not “man up,” Tex.

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

…and sometimes the Page turns you

Betty Page was all the rage
Never had to hit a stage
Simply posed for photographs
Steamy, sexy, some for laughs

Never in apron or bonnet
Often with some leather on it
Betty Page was quite a oner –
Sharp as nails and quite the stunner!

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Previously published at Poetic Asides

A Poetic Asides post. An ever-so-delicate look at how women’s bodies change over the years… Enjoy, and then click the link to check out poems by the rest of the gang! Amy


It comes to us all
Those gifted with double-X
The passage of time brings
the curse of our sex

First we get periods
Bloat like balloons
Bitchy and bothered
We cry to full moons

Then comes the part where
if you have some luck
you have a big baby
comes out like a truck

Your skinny jeans gone
to the clothing exchange
Your once-lithe young self
is at once rearranged

Your boobs not your own
‘Cause you share them with baby
and hubby gets jealous
But fools with them? (maybe)

Now gravity takes hold
and Cooper’s Droop socks you
More than a pencil
I can hold a whole box, too

Then finally menopause
There’s God’s big laugh
You sweat and you chill
and your mind’s cut in half

Part of it knowing
what you need upstairs
the other half, getting there,
asking, “What the hell am I doing here and why? There was something I needed up here but I don’t know WILL SOMEBODY TURN DOWN THE HEAT? I’M SWEATING MY ASS OFF!!!”

(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Poetic Asides prompt.  This is what happens when you spend three hours at Barnes and Noble, sipping cappuccino and reading Pablo Neruda love poems!


Shiny satin garter belts with buttons and clasps
The sexiest, most alluring of fashion details
Stockings that slack a bit during the day
reminding her of their silky selves undercover

Tantalizing tug of war under her skirt
She never knew sensuality until she abandoned L’eggs
and smoothed sheer silk over
sturdy, smoothly shaved legs

Rolling the first carefully over calf and thigh
Easing the hem over the button
latching it securely, then
the other leg, this time more slowly

Later, on the dance floor, he hand on her hip
His eyes flash and she knows that he knows
What’s in store for the rest of the evening
It makes the wait agonizing bliss

He carefully eases the dress off, purring
with the subtle confidence of a true lover
His delight in the details of her undergarments
His appreciation of her shape, her way

Finding the treasure beneath
first teasing, pleasuring, then
slowly, cautiously unwrapping her
an undulating, whispering bundle of lace and linen

No awkward peeling back of pantyhose
She is old-school, The Book of Betty (Grable, Page, and Boop)
He leafs tenderly through the endless pages of her body
The journal of her journey to this timeless moment

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil