Drunk, Dumb.

I have become so discontented at my prospects for love, that I’ve drawn away from lust. As though I’m a characture portrait artist, I’ve begun working in reverse. Maybe even erasing some of those Casanova superheroes that I’ve always silently imagined. And the women that accompany those ideals at all.

And then, there you are: wearing the perfect dress. You are black hair with musky eyes. Latin skin. Sex is rocketing from your pores. We are sitting over perfect cocktails, the sun falling to our ancient west and your sense of flirtation has pushed me beyond love – to that place of ultimate, primitive provocation. Of those virtues which were long born before me.

More than you know, this table between us has a circumference larger than Pi. Bigger than all the mathematics you were ever taught.

(I infer this, but don’t speak the animal for you to hear.)

Quickly the heat rises and your explanation of a man’s ultimate liquid all over your body is more than intoxication. More than this moment put together in allegory.

(I infer this, but only later will speak about the most provocative of natures we all share.)

And I nod, because I know where you’re going. I know where you’ve been. This kind of sophistication I adore. And ache for. And for several intermittent moments, I even mistake it all for love and something bigger than you and me.

And then, the idea of sophistication dissipates as that watery liquid over me. And I am embarrassed for believing in you at all.

+

My friend describes somebody like you as, “Sex-on-a-stick”. And while that phrase alone titillates, what I will learn later is not so intriguing.

For months now, which feel like lifetimes, I have pushed away from these interactions.

For my soul – I know, that fucking place where the light meets the dark; where we all toss and turn in the night – is not satisfied by your provocations. By your large and small grandstands of fashion and strutting and posing.

My friend talks about it as, “the power of skirt”. She says that she and her sisters, as women, have so much more to give. To flirt with. To titillate with. Simply because of the skirt and the sophistications around exhibitionism. And while I believe that my sophistications are robust… I fall flat here. I become retarded. I flirt with you. And then,

I drop to my knees.

As though something greater is before me.

And even as you tickle that Grand Marnier down your thigh for me to lick, I feel like a fool…

+

And so, you with your smoky eyes, your heightened sexuality for all the world to see, ask me to come to your place.

A few moments in and we are at that station which topples the insophisticates over. And I assure us both that alcohol makes us do daring things. Still, you ask me to take off my clothes and I soon after am naked, before you – and more than that, I am naked before any questioning ideology that has ever provoked me. I am more than naked, I am blind. And,

I feel cheap.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like a whore. You, my slut. The dirtiest thing that I could ever place my entire sexuality inside of. Within my haste, I am thrilled that you exalt in the land of rubbery protection.

Because I don’t trust you.

I don’t trust that small thing inside of me – which is out and in public, being honest. Being earnest. Reverberating in life’s silent exclaims.

+

Fuck you, cheap sexuality.

Fuck you, everything that pulls me into that stupid place of want and desire – just because I know what you’re wearing underneath.

For the fact that you have spoken any of this to me at all cheapens anything you have to give.

But I, stupid boy, climb into your bed – drunk and dumb and beyond myself.

And while you are the greatest flirt I have ever known, I am embarrassed by the progression of our intimacy.

You play your games and really, I’m willing to see how far you will go.

To my disbelief, you go all the way to fall down, back to the bed, legs spread-open – as though you are some kind of missionary. This when you are nothing more than the collection of chemicals in your head.

You are evolution. A species’ invisible, slow progression. You are reproduction. You are pregnant women and menstruation and gynecologists and everything remedial about sexuality. You are rote.

My cock is not excited. My tongue, bored by your sense of kiss.

You are the worst lover I have ever known.

(And now I see and hear and smell your kind everywhere. Everywhere.)

For while you bark at the world around you to coddle you, to caress you, to tease you, to learn how to give you an orgasm, to be a good lover, an attentive lover – you are the furthest thing from a learned student.

+

Shh, I have a secret: I come on your face when you’re not looking. You are the filthiest thing I have ever known and I tell you this under my breath when you are not listening (I don’t want to hear your response, really – your girlie, nervous giggle). Because in this dark place with you roaming behind my eyes – for a moment: You are the biggest thing in my life. And then,

I orgasm. And,

My fantasy of you dies a violent death.

Then, finally: You are the most remote of my addiction and reality, at all. You are gone. Away from me, like a fly, buzzing towards death.

+

In front of your smoky eyes, down wind from your perfume, we talk about the most provocative facets of your being. The biggest secrets. We peel back the paint in the darkest of your corners. We share entire lifetimes in short hours. And I am lead to this place of belief. Of faith. That you will carry me in the same way that I carry you.

But no, in the drunk darkness of your bedroom and its corners, I am lead to a place where I come to know the biggest flirt as the worst lover I have ever taken.

Several years ago and those girls that were willing to speak their dirtiest, darkest fantasies and recollections to me, were the most provocative. The bravest. And for a long while, that pushed me to understand my communications in the most intimate manners. But now,

I am laying in your bed and I feel disgusted: that I am actually dreaming. That I am actually sleeping. That I am worn-out and need a place to sleep at all. Because,

You are no friend of mine, sexuality.

And more than that, you are less interesting in my contemporaries than any book I have ever read.

Certainly, most people grimace at the idea of pornography. They state that it is not interesting. Not really even sexy. Not provocative. They say,

It’s rote. It’s the median. It’s not even interesting.

And so I say: all of these women, all of these interactions – are pornographic.

And I, am a pornographer. By association.

In the mountainous landscape of life, I am but a carver of one cave. One valley. One riverbed. And you, nothing more than wet crease. That decayed den.

+

I find confessions intriguing. And so,

Where you are but one orgasm, one small fantasy that recedes into the backfold of the ambition of life, I am a fool for believing that you have any faculty to deliver the true gems of real discovery.

And so, I have reached for the heavens – toward love, but only found myself receding away from lust. Because of the ultimate disgust – where I am looking at you, my sexuality – in a black dress with smoky eyes, I am bored.

There is nothing intriguing here.

I am safer alone.

I am safer as both, the hunter and gatherer. The only thing that I can rely upon, at all.

Fuck you sexuality.

Fuck you titillation.

Fuck you, boring girls that I continually meet.

For where lust overwhelms, love is about the only the constant that makes sense.

Show me your light.

Fury

I am with furious with the world and let my night lead me to your bed of ashes and cigarette smoke.

I follow you down the hallway into your hollow room. With each step the light lowers and my hunger for pummeling something near me just to watch it fall rises in delight. Just because you are near, I measure my fist in relation to your back, your spine, your head, your nose. I want to make you fall if only because you are a woman and, because of that, you are also the representation of my sadistic contempt.

I am hissing with this hunger.

When we were on the couch, you thought I was giving you pleasure. You thought I was fingering your cunt. You though I was tickling your clit. But I was doing little more than stealing as much as I could and measuring your lifeforce through your cunt with my fist and my fury.

As we crawl onto your bed, I am thinking about pounding you through the bed. I am thinking about fucking your legs back until they snap.

My fury is so blind and invisible I can not even speak its first syllable.

Then, we kiss…

And somehow that black veil raises its hell from my eyes. It is then that I realize I came only to be touched. That, this is all I needed: to be touched. That, this is all I have wanted: to be touched.

In my fury, I have forgotten about the simplicity of a hand on my chest, measuring my heart’s loping gait. Or fingers laced in mine and engorged lips on my bicep.

+

There is something perverse about confessions.

I have had to confess many things in my life. As a deviant youth, I was afforded lifetimes of experience because of my libraries of transgressions and subsequent confessions. Even as an adult, I’ve hosted symposiums full of simple confessions alike.

There always was, as there is to this day – a peculiar rush that floods my body, when the time comes to confess. To be even more honest, I have learned that as I am speaking my confession, I am typically only eyeing the threshold instead of hearing what I am actually confessing – that threshold which immediately changes upon the utterance of the confession. This threshold is that delicate place where the blood leaves the body. This is where the music dies. This is the beginning of the sense of complete loss. Profound dread. This line where everything changes, this is what I crave in confession.

This threshold, this change, this confession is the perfect act of violence.

Red death.

Black birth.

+

We are drunk and spring is supposed to be arriving any day. The sound of your laugh in the complete silence above the rustling of sheets and clothing being peeled off our aging bodies, is sweet – as though it is somehow transformed. Titillated by the hands of something unnamable…

We talk about Latin lovers. Minutes later and we are touching, prodding at our now naked bodies and I remember what my Latin lover showed me. And I want to share it with you. But, I stop in half-motion and lay back into the bed. For there are some things which need their secrecy and shade to grow.

Maybe this is only an excuse – for the truth is that I don’t want to share anything with you. This is not about giving everything to you. This is about stealing a little for my self.

Certainly, you have your ideas about who I am and who came into your bed at all. This when you don’t see the invisible thresholds of the most selfish man in the universe and everything that I have lost, been raped of, and left behind out of stupid ignorance.

+

Once we begin touching – really touching, the black storm drains from the strangest of places: from behind my knees, the crook of my elbow. And quickly, my fury dissipates as we crawl into one another, naked and locked in some perfect human puzzle.

It is then that I realize that sometimes this is all I really need: to be touched. Skin-on-skin.

I do not whimper, but a tear streams from my eye and rolls off the far side, away from you.

+

When you wrap your body around me and take me all the way inside, I am stunned at the sensations that flood my body. It’s as though I have jumped into the shocking frigidity of some great, unnamable ocean. Your touch is wholly new and I can feel you in every vacant space between my fingers.

For a moment I think about the bliss that has invaded me so violently. We push and pull at our symphony of want and restraint and boundaries and everything stolen from our lives as you writhe and gyrate while I am sucking your juices from you. Like a thief, I am pulling life from you. Juice, from you.

Your legs squeeze my ears, blinding me. Alas, the magic trick is complete. You don’t know me and I know nothing about you except for this tattoo which circles your stomach and that empty place where you were once able to give birth.

+

In the morning you tell me to come inside you.

Where love is the most selfish emotion that we own, I can think of nothing more violent. I can think of no greater gesture, to come inside you – as if my come is my scream and the sound of our bodies pounding furiously together is all the applause we will ever receive. So, I fuck you longer. Harder.

I watch your stomach rise and fall, the muscles flexing and flinching, polished as though you were bred for this. As though you were bread for my hunger. Meat for my table. Lessons for my life. Sustenance for my growth. A knife for my death and a grave for my rotting.

+

More than likely, I hate you. I despise everything about you. If not now, soon. I will – hate you – soon. In the morning, you make lamb sausage and scrambled eggs and coffee and we eat this at your dining room table. But it is snowing outside and I begin to seethe again.

But you cannot see this. This darkness. Where I am burnt. Nobody has seen this. For I have confessed much, in front of courts and classrooms of eyes and ears – but not one person has ever come to this conclusion. Not one person has ever even slipped with mention of this feeling that drives the pounding of this meat, the devouring of this nasty emotion. I have walked for years to stand here, for this confession:

In that same way that a narcissist possesses a dark side of inadequacy beneath – I too hate so much around me in that same way that makes me punch every mirror I pass.

I have pointed and fingered and fucked full of blame those that wear their anger on their beard like a unfinished meal – all when:

In the slushy remains of winter, where spring and green should be – there is only sloppy snow. A cold day. And my confession that I am the angriest man I know.

The Most Selfish Man in the Universe

There once was a man who cried and wept and yelped and decreed: All I do, I do for you. This man, naked under his crimson robe, was incessant in his pleas. He said things like: I want only the best for you. Anything less is unacceptable.

The man bellowed things like:

I cannot live without you. With you, I am stronger.

When not howling and heaving, the man uttered phrases like:

It pains me when you are away. I miss you when you are not around. I do not know what to do with myself even when you are near.

The man sometimes sobbed in song. He would say:

When you hurt, I ache in pain. When you fall, I tumble from the cliffs of Dover.

Where this man initially reveled in the joy of a beginning and a the provenance of relationship and the triumph of the human spirit, he now only sat with his arms crossed, crying and mumbling about his lack of breath. His dearth of life. The futility in living at all. This man, sucked every good molecule from every living being around him.

This man went by the name of the first human plague, the first fit of evolution into this advanced mammalian state. This man, went by the name of the most selfish of all emotions. This man’s name was worst possible combination of any four letters.

This man’s name was Love.

What is Love.

I am not much different from you. I, like you, say things like: All I want is love. Love is the most prized virtue in this world.

But it has come to my attention that I may be asking for something that doesn’t even exist. Really, I spend so many nights talking about it, but: Do I have any real, concrete idea as to what I am really saying, for those that are trying to hear me? Up on my soapbox, do I have any real idea what love is?

In all my nighttime, seemingly productive dialogues, it is demarcation alone which is probably the solvent by which we c/should sink all of our wonderment into, to retain a clear, undiluted answer. To begin a real dialogue about love’s presence in our lives, we must explore love’s corollaries. Love’s veins: eros, amor, agape, phileo. Especially when the question is this abstract. Especially when the question is: What is love?

I am away from my intoxicated nights of conversation. Now I am standing in front of the mirror and I ask this question once again: What is love?

When I boil it down, in my patchwork world, love is a polysemic word which represents the amalgamation of all the real, or apparent, forms of love: eros, amor, agape, phileo. To clarify in this mirror of words: Under most red lights, when I am talking about love at all, I am referring to romantic love, or amor.

I believe that we all fundamentally understand these faces of love: Eros is erotic love. Agape is unconditional love. Phileo is brotherly love. But it is amor, or romantic love, which baffles all of us and causes these strange language circles of conversation which reach no real, concrete end – either out and in the world, or in our hearts.

Amor, this most mysterious brand of love, is sharp. It is a blade, which cuts. A fire, which burns. A slippery cell that squirms and wriggles and oftentimes feels foreign to our human grasp. More often than not, romantic love is violently difficult to hold onto, once grasped at all. Truly, romantic love is the ultimate gamble. For at every turn, the possibility of falling from one of love’s cliffs is a real, and mostly, probable expectation.

In the end, it may be simply because of this gamble – why I have always been so fascinated with romantic love.

Love is like a ghost. It can haunt you. It often appears in the strangest of places, without explanation – only to recede into the dust of night without notice. Love can strike fear into you. It can scream at you. It can amplify your infirmities. And in all honesty: it does. Afterall, the most prized virtue in the universe should have this kind of roaring power to: strike fear, scream, amplify every vulnerability you own.

But like a ghost, love too is mostly misunderstood. Like a ghost, most of us have seen the apparition. Felt it. Welcomed it into our lives. Been haunted by it.

Still, sitting in this chair, talking over cocktails with those eager lips around me and I begin to emerge at the idea that: I am being uncritical in all of this. I am not even sure that like most ghosts I’ve ever known: I’m not sure if love, romantic love, exists.

Pause. Breathe. Exhale.

In reality, what we call romantic love may be nothing more than ardor: That fiery, fleeting initial burst of fire and disfigurement. In the end, this may be the ultimate goal. Or at least, it always has been for me.

In trying to refocus my needs and desires and patterns within my previous relationships – I have noticed that when this initial fire does recede, my interest wanes. For after this fleeting burst of energy – the real questions come to the fore. Or, if not the questions, the stark, real answers.

It is here, where I believe the other forms of love begin to waddle-in and meld with amor, or romantic love. Especially initially, there is a sense of phileo, or brotherly love. Ultimately, the goal is to reach agape, or unconditional love.

Where my final, profound discontents within my romantic relationships may have found their ultimate doom is the earliest of stages within my relationships, within this face of erotic love: eros. For I believe that, like so many others, we often confuse amor with eros, or erotic love.

In the end, that fleeting fire of ardor may be predicated on a heavy lot of eros as opposed to romantic love. In the beginning, eros is the reality, amor is the goal. In total: Amor is the actualization of all the basic forms of love.

Certainly, like the ghosts of the night, wrapping your hands completely around amor is a tricky one. For most of the time, you cannot see its limbs, its veins. Phileo, eros, agape. In all, the amalgamation of love may not, nay – does not – always exist. To have all parts working and in-line as a unified whole is obviously difficult. To sustain this machine’s motion for any length of time – nearly impossible.

Simply writing about the work of fulfilled romantic love brings me back to my beginning – back to where I always begin in my relationships: to the ardor, the struggle of the explosive beginnings. I am brought back to that place where my love affairs have constantly found their swift demise.

Having, at long last, defined love I am still left wondering: can only unfulfilled love truly be romantic?

We say that we “love” many things: I love the color blue. I love my car. My house. In the same linguistic manner, we say so much is romantic. In the contemporary lexicon something seen as romantic is something which is unrealistic, ideal, impractical. Romance is about the glorification, especially when it comes to love. In the end, I am of the belief that our idea of romance is also about tragedy (see my article, “Romance as Tragedy” in the Denver syntax).

Our idea of romance may be about the fire of love. The blade of love. The ultimate gamble. The quick gamble. The most painful and destructive gamble.

Even agape love is a gamble and full of pain bodies and bloody blades. If even the most asexual form of love is that dangerous then I will propose that even romance itself is quite romantic. Romance may just be the most sharpest of blades, the hottest of fires. For it is about a moment, a forest fire, ablaze in a small forest. Quickly it dies. And, whether short or extended in time, we all know what fires leave behind: devastated endings and destroyed beginnings.

A charcoal forest, once vibrant with life; with love stories living and even composing the whole forest all together – that is romantic. It is, alas, love that is unfulfilled. It is love, with its corollary veins and arms dangling from its own cliffs, striving and seeking its complicated, whole self. And yes, struggle is also quite romantic – for it exemplifies virtues that otherwise aren’t in daily life.

Like anything else, the conception of love is a fluid one. In our grayscale, liquid world so much is once present, then recedes. Eros comes, agape leaves. They exist at the same place for a small moment, when one washes away – only to return moments later.

If this is natural love, romantic love, then it is a truism: love is the building block of our human world. It is where everything, organic and composed – both begins and ends: in a blackened forest after the fire has died. Love is the weeks and months and years of life that begins and grows in that forest. Love is also that fire itself.

And so it is: love exists. However it exists in a grayscale world full of complications and misunderstandings. But, dear reader, more than that, I am left feeling stronger for having struggled with this question at all and my final conclusion breathes: Love is the most prized virtue in the universe.

The Alliteration of Love and Lust

For two years now, she has been my erotic ideal.

She, alone, has symbolized the aim of my erotic intent. The intended high-fashion of my pen. The slow grooming of every sophistication around the hearts of love and lust that I have ever won for my self.

She was untouchable. She was not something I was supposed to have, or even kiss. She was merely something I was supposed to want and ache painfully, silently – invisibly for.

But now, we are laying in the still of shattering night, on her bed. My fingers are drawing lines of conviction on her back, up and down her tiny spine. I am kneading her thighs. Her calves.

I am touching her skin. Proof that the disappearing girl has reappeared from the darkest of night. Proof that my heart of eroticism is beating, alive.

Truth is: She was here all along, only mythically beyond my grasp. And now, I am touching her skin.

Every now and then my noise machine goes silent and I can hear her breathing. I stop my trace upon her body only to stand in the wind – to force the memory of anything else back into me, including breath.

+

“A man’s sexual choice is the sum of his fundamental convictions… The man who is proudly certain of his own value will want the highest type of woman he can find, the woman he admires, the strongest… because only the possession of a heroine will give him a sense of achievement, not the possession of a brainless slut. He does not seek to gain his value, but to express it. There is no conflict between the standards of his mind and the desires of his body.”

- Ayn Rand

+

I first saw her standing on a stage. Two years ago.

And while I sometimes think I remembered everything about that first night – truth is, I remember very little. Just the monuments:

I remember the heat spiraling from her. The heat that intoxicated me and made me actually question whether or not the stage lights were on, or if she was radiating all that light from her tiny body alone.

I remember her bubble gum voice coming through the speakers. And I remember the terror that climbed over me at the thought of saying a word, any word, to her. But for some reason, I felt compelled. If only on the premise of: If you see something beautiful, act. Now. Beauty is fleeting. And sometimes, a dream at best.

I remember one other vision that I would take with me for so many weeks and months and years after that: she was wearing thigh-high stockings. Cut-off jeans. Over her shoulder was slung a sea foam green guitar, but it could have been any color – for I saw very little apart from her being.

I have never owned a true celebrity crush. But I have crushed on many things that were larger than me. Still, this was the first time I had ever stood in front of something and been so paralyzed by my beating eroticism and heart at the same time. For the last two years I have wondered if this is my celebrity crush – that painful kind of infatuation that cries you to sleep at the end of endlessly long days.

I don’t remember much about her initially, apart from seeing her one more time, performing. Desperately I wanted to say something, but knew no words. After her set, I was standing outside and then, magically, there she came – strolling past. Quickly, I mumbled something complimentary – that their set was good. I enjoyed it. Without ruining even one gait, she merely smiled at me, uttered some form of gratitude and walked into the night.

With continents of experiences between us, I watched her walk down that sidewalk and disappear from my life.

Then, without even a hello and, she was gone. Forever, gone.

+

Have you ever wanted something so bad, then received it?

I ask you, what do you do next?

If you are me, you are not the picture of Don Juan. And certainly, you are not Casanova the misunderstood savant of everything about the human heart. You are not the picture of everything romantic, that you had wished for your living self.

Instead, you are stumbling over your words, and her body. You are laying next to her for the first time ever wondering if it is the last time, wanting all of her at the same time – but uncertain as to where to even begin. You are greedy because moments are fleeting and this may never happen again…

Instead of ideal, you are wanting to put her perfect lips in-between your teeth and gnaw on them. Not for pleasure anymore. But rather, for sustenance. For food. For life. For every person who has never had this opportunity and for all the failures that are soon to come.

+

Unknowingly, she has been the breathing representation of that intersection where love meets lust. Beneath these lights she has walked for so long now, earless to my strong sentiments and invisible conversations.

For the last two years now, she has lived only in an impossible, dreamed place: within hundreds of thousands of written words. She has lived in a place where hundreds of thousands of people have read these words, this place where her monument was carved as a picture in words. Here, I promise you, it has endured. And while no particular ode was written for her, nearly every ode I have breathed into these pages, was rifled in her mythic direction. Like a flare in the darkest night, imploring her to blink once.

We are two years later now, and the strangest of things has occurred: I know where her front door is and I know the streets where she has been roaming for this eternity, on foot and by car. These streets, these doors, now have names. Lights of their own. Intersections of their own delight.

This when, for all of this time, just her first name sent a wave of heat through my torso. This when now, this is bigger than a crush – this my life we are talking about.

+

Her body is holy.

And if her body is a representation of some thing, one academically-touted thing, it is of something holy. For a love, that is holy. For a promise, that is holy. For a hope, that is holy. For a life, that is well-lived with integrity and dignity and the bounding joy of love – the body of everything filled with intoxicating lust. And holiness.

Hers is the kind of body that you trace for her pleasure, but secretly for yourself – to learn its sacred curves and secret language, because of the virtues: of gratitude and grace and pleasure and want and everything bigger than you. If not that, then simply because you are unsure if you will ever even be close to something this perfect. This heartbreaking. Ever again.

To this end, my whole life exclaims that I have laid in her bed!

And when I eventually, clumsily crawl deeper between her hipbones and under her panties – the thought again comes to me: I am about to feel her heat. I am about to feel the wet, physical center of my erotic ideal. Then, I slide further down after the breath leaves my lungs and the memory of anything that ever lived before me…

+

It has only been a couple of weeks now. Nineteen days, to be exact. Since I saw her name again. Certainly, when I first saw her name again, I leapt and wrote. I had to. You can’t blame me.

However, to my surprise, she greeted me warmly, and then – everything in my world began to spin as our words picked-up in length and frequency and profundity and before I could even count a beat in my heart, we were talking. Really, talking. Finally, I was really talking with somebody. And more than that, we were talking about the profundities of life and love and want and lust and living vibrantly and what that means at all…

And the wild fires of my life began to meld into one glassy exhale. Because she suddenly began to feel familiar. As though we were speaking about the same things, with the same voice, in the same musical cadence. And my eroticism began to find new light, new breath. New ambition. New possibility.

…in love…

+

Beauty is not Barbie sitting on the shelf next to Ken.

Beauty is about how a girl holds her glass. How she moves across the room. Says what she says, means what she means. How she synthesizes ideas, creates new formulas for perception.

Beauty has never been about something stagnant and learned in a classroom. Instead, beauty is about movement.

Eroticism lives at that intersection where love and lust meet.

Eroticism is the fieriest of flames. The bluest of light. In this intersection where love and lust live, this place that I call eroticism, the beautiful moments have a possibility of life. Under this fluid streetlight, the profundities of existence happen. Some are sexual, some are not.

Eroticism is not about sexuality. Not explicitly. Eroticism is about every titillating thing that happens before a sexual encounter.

You can lust after an idea. An event. A possibility. A girl. A thigh. A moment, on a girl and in the world: in an ideology in a book, on a beach, hovering over a cliff.

Eroticism is about the want you have when you encounter an idea more-holy and bigger than you. Eroticism is this sensation of, “aha!” Eroticism is about the anticipation of want. The anticipation of need. The anticipation of every thing you have ever wanted, or what you could become.

Just the same, you can love everything under the umbrella of life. And really, you should find those things which move your entire soul to the sharp cliffs of this earth.

I say to my self: put yourself in this space. Strive for this fire. This heat. This birthplace of true, complicated passion. Anything less is really unacceptable.

And then, I look up and there she suddenly, miraculously, is…

+

For all of this naked time where she was but a wavy line in my timeline, she has represented the height of my eroticism. And now, she represents that pointed possibility of breathing unimaginable life into this intersection of love and lust, this birthplace of passion. In all, she is the paralyzing flame of my red wine lips, wanting. Needing. Almost having… if the alchemy has been stirred in your favor.

I have spoken it aloud to strangers and friends alike: She is the sexiest girl in this Queen City.

But then, the strangest of sequences begins to unfold: In a correspondence of thousands of words it comes to pass that: she is not only the sexiest girl I have ever seen, she is brilliant. She is the best kind of intellectual: she is unsuspecting in her presentation. And what I begin to see in her is intellectual integrity, the one rounded element that has eluded me in all my intellectual relationships. It is this that I have lusted after for so long, since my childhood bones began to break in shards more apparent to my heart than anything else.

How this began: She writes. I write back. She writes. And I begin to fall, steadily, quickly, unwavering, into a massive military complex that, at first I don’t want to identify as such – but then relent, with ease and call it: love. And then, in only a couple of days – I am sitting before her words and the heat in my body is swirling, pulsing.

And it comes to pass that she is, indeed, more than any other I have known: She is the Michelangelo of my erotic ideal.

She is eroticism.

+

And so, for the first time ever, we are sitting next to one another. (Certainly, she did not remember me from two years before, mumbling on that sidewalk after her gig).

I am thinking to myself: This is my celebrity crush. This is the one girl that I have ever pointed at and said: I want her (my intiution is not sharp enough to explicate a thesis, because I only feel this). This is the first girl that I have seemingly haphazardly pointed at and said: I want her and nothing else.

Finally, remarkably – she is sitting in front of me. And I know: This is my one chance. This is my moment.

She is smiling at me as I shiver before her. I do not remember what comes from my mouth, except for the fact that every phrase is shaky and I hope with all my frail timbers that something will magically impress her, about me. When she is not looking, I breathe and pull myself together and put my invisible hands together in hope that my prayers will even make sense at all.

Then, she tells me to sit closer.

Again, I try breathing (because really, I am not suave, I am only me).

Then, magically, I am touching her.

Her hands crawl into my lap and I am the painting of gratitude. And alas, obese love. I am the picture that I want of me to be hanging in my legacy’s image: I am every deadly sin wrapped into one. I am, alas, the embodiment of everything bigger than me: I am Beethoven’s symphonies molten lava into Mozart and a perverted Dali moustache grin painted on Rothko’s dying face.

With every small touch on her tiny body, I tingle. Her fingerprints leave small explosions on my leg.

Her hand slides closer to my heat. At first, to test. Then, she leans in and the intersection where love and lust cross in the dead of night expands and soon, a small, nameless universe is born.

And then, as though we want to share a secret, she comes closer and: I know it is going to happen. It has to happen. This is my one chance. This is my moment. If it is to never happen again, it is happening this once…

I don’t so much kiss her as she kisses me. Averting any confusion, we kiss each other back. Again, and again…

+

Still, days later and I have been shaking, intermittently, from that first encounter. Shivering. I think about this reality, and the large facts that say: You kissed her and she kissed you. And where this could only happen once, my primary reason exhalts and I tingle in delight. For this may only be the beginning.

For where I once knew my eroticism by only one name and one small intersection of love and lust, I am now forever changed. I now know my supreme delight by two names, an alliteration, her names alone – the unspoken singular being: love.

Beyond anything of physical pleasure, it is a new born child and stamped in fact: I am in love with this girl. Mad, deep, life-altering love that begats new symphonies. New plays. New paintings. New paths in the wooded hills of my songs.

For my erotic ideal is even more complicated than I once imagined. And I am still learning, teetering on a brink of possible disaster that I may have never really known. Still, with all possible struggle and beauty alike, I am standing in the wind, head-on – believing that I may have never wanted anything more.

And so again, I ask:

Have you ever wanted something so bad that you could not shake it from your waking life for years? Then, in a burst of unexpected light, it came walking into your life with open arms, possibly even wanting you?

I ask you, what do you do next?

Doors

I was born to do this: To walk past the vertigo in my life and surface on the other side of the silvery swirls of barely walking.

And in only a few short moments you will crawl from my bed, find your clothes and disappear, back into the murky memories of expectation and red wine want.

+

If you look through the peephole of life’s labyrinth of doors, you will see the darkened, naked room on the other side. In all challenge there is phototropic metaphor, seeking light.

And so it is, here I am again standing at yet another door, knowing that somewhere in the dark room, there you are.

Monster. Lover. Stranger. The eternal disappearance and reemergence of me.

There is part pulling at me, to walk through. So I do.

But you are not there, the room is still a void and there is time before the door shuts behind me, sealing me inside. Time to escape.

Instead, I sit to wait. To contemplate how much I do not want to fuck you. Because I do not know what this means anymore.

+

When we get to your car, after drinks, I unzip my pants in front of the symphonies of sound coming from your dashboard. You look down, then up. Take me inside your cup of hands. And we both drink it in.

You begin sliding up and down on me, the fattened lips of snow kissing your windshield, sliding past our sense of infinity.

And then, in only a few short moments you will crawl from my bed and walk back out the doors of my life.

+

The purple purses of our winding walk are slung over our shoulder, but when you arrive, there is nothing in your hands. Nothing behind your back.

You have swum in these darkened seas and expanded them with your light.

My empty cups of hand are open before you. I want to receive this gift. I want to learn about the mysteries and glow with their pride. Blush with my perseverance.

+

I have done this before. I was born to do this.

To stand before you as I have done with so many others. Those figurative, those sentient and responsive, and also those vacant eyes of the undead.

I have walked into the homes of strangers and stripped myself of all shields of fabric. I have stood at the feet of so many beds and the outstretched arms of lovers. Momentary friends and foes alike. The doors always behind me, always closing their tired eyes as though they have seen this so many times before.

But the sound of the lock clicking shut this time has sworn to be my perfunctory call. My windy push forward.

+

I do not want to fuck you and I will not.

On the drive to my bed the nerves are calm. This when the ultimate end to our night was to always involve a bed, like so many of my nights before and after this. But I am calm, driving forward toward it all.

In all challenge is a sea of metaphor aching for life.

I open the door, you walk through, and then I follow.

With chivalry’s hands, I slowly begin to unpeel you. And in only a couple of sophisticated moments your clothing is strewn around my bed. Then, we lock: Face to face. Body to body. Life to life.

+

You have told the world around you about your heat. About your sex and your need for impassioned dominance and submission and the leathery ropes of letting go. As a result you now walk unafraid with vulnerability strangled dead in your wake.

I have told the world around me about my desire. My heat. My passion and my blindness alike. Still, I am perpetually beneath my Golden Gate Bridge, having leapt from it and survived. Swimming, I am, waiting for rescue near the rocks. Wanting only to save myself and curse the rest.

+

We are not far apart when you take my sex inside your aching mouth. You tell me that it has been forever. A long leap since the last time. You crawl up and over my rocks and moan in delight of the ancient waters dripping from your chin.

And where there was once the internal pressure of diving so deep, I have surfaced to lay naked beneath you. In resuscitation, beneath your breath.

And for a couple of hours we swim around one another in symphonic elegance. I, unafraid of the doors that open but never close before and behind me. The ease of the lighter waters and easier currents take me into your sail and we ride on in a symbiotic intimacy that has been known for ages.

My death is in this rebirth. Of this kind of naked intimacy. Of no expectation, but supreme gain. You are laying on my chest and we are simply talking. Sharing. Listening to music and tracing the lines of our bodies. For a few short hours I am comforted in your hands not shaking, your voice not quivering and the surprise of all this…

I will not forget this and I will not settle for a swim. I will only aim for the currents down those streams of all my life’s doors where I feel serendipity and whim. Only aching for this antithesis: The lifestyle of living for the strong swim.

Challenge me with ribbons and I will walk through these glass doors.

I was born to do this.

Rome is Burning

I can only talk about sex in first person because anything else feels uncertain. False. As though it has been forged by bad checks and hockey tongues of inconsequence.

With my sexuality as a mirror for the all the other arms of my being, I have learned much. I have learned where I fall, how I fall and mostly, how to either not get back up, or rise alive and dead at the same time.

One thing I have learned is that I resonate in this particular place where my body and mind and sexuality is a grand floor plan for an unnamable building of disgust. This is what I see with my eyes closed: My skyscraper of debauchery and living as a slum of everything filthy and fearful.

As a writer and a being, I live on the outskirts of my downtown. I live in the ditches and on the riverbanks where the sloths and invisible people do. Each morning I break bread with the homeless and the heartbroken, the beaten-down and those that simply prefer laying down to standing up.

Maybe, just maybe, I am the first person of my own disgust. Maybe I live in the broken-down places in the city I erected. Maybe I live in and out of the ditches I have dug, dirty with my naked limbs. Alone and unasked from the unsympathetic universe.

Very few have crawled more than a few paces with me. Very few people have even stood to rise next to me after a night of ashes.

Perpetually I am: On my haunches and staring up at the bleary oblivion above.

+

If you want to talk about perversion, true perversion, join this unformulated and clandestine group and be beaten to death by your own life. Otherwise, pay nothing to stand in your own closet unadorned.

Stand to rise. Alive and dead in the same breath.

Whatever you do: act. Stop your mouth long enough to rise, alive.

Writhe, alive.

+

I have one such face that is this kind of action that I crave. Her name is bigger than a city. Hers, is the name of an entire civilization that crashed into the ash of history.

She, this island of civilization, is my perfect perversion.

She is every fetish that I enjoy.

She is disappointment rolled into its antithesis. She is the opposite of so many of my discontents: She says very little, but acts loudly. Robustly. Quietly, violent.

She is smooth skin. A swimmer’s curves. Watery, crying nipples and a Picasso ass.

+

We are laying in my bed in the dusty sunlight of an early morning. We are strung-out on lifetimes of sadness and throats strangled. There is a shower and water nearby, but instead of that, we are looking at porn.

The sheets are pulled up our torsos, making little mountains of hands on our own skin. We pull and prod at our unsleeping sex at the impetus of the filth and images before us. Inside us.

I crawl down to her bottom and her toes and I lace my naked legs in hers. I watch her eyes bounce and ache in delight of the filthy naked bodies on the screen before her.

I can feel her hand twitch and dance on her sex while I stroke mine. Ass to ass. Thighs to thighs.

The diseased beauty in her eyes makes me throb with supreme delight and I drool in loss of myself.

+

I know nothing about her. I barely know where she is from, or what she does for work. Still, we’ve known each other for some time now.

Apart from her apple bottom, I am heartfelt lustful for her on account of the fact that, simply, she tells me very little but acts out loud.

The first night I met her, she said little. She sat in the middle of a heated argument and said small, silent things. Then,

I was leaving her at her car when I asked her to ride into the night with me. Her eyes flickered. I asked her if she had preferences. Standing closely, she said very little, only: I like to be told what to do.

+

We broke bread together once and she asked me if I were addicted to sex. I nodded and somehow formulated the idea that I go into sexual comas. Spontaneously I was the teacher and the student, speaking to myself, and her:

While I spoke, she did not watch my eyes. I said that I go into these comas from time to time. I said that I black out. Lose my vision. Think only the filthiest of thoughts. Lose my self. Swim only in the darkest of my sexual seas.

I said, out loud, that I will do things in these comas that I never would, otherwise.

She did not respond to this fresh, fruitful thought. This precendence that would carry me for days afterward, into new levels of understanding.

+

She does not accept that place where words come from me, my mouth, to be so close to her sex. More than that, as we are flicking our sex in front of one another – I think that she will become violent if I come too close.

When my cock slides in her mouth it does so, to the hilt.

She gags. And gags.

And more than feeling perfect, I can only picture teary eyes.

And violence.

+

I’ve grown tired of the vertiginous words that swim all around me. Words of promise and provocation. Words without legs.

But there are these small, fleeting moments:

We are naked in my bed. We are not talking about anything. There are no empty promises. Just boundaries of filth and lifetimes behind.

She is the kind of music I always want to play. Something about looking into that kind of darkness brings the breath back into my body. Somehow, her echo is the one I have always heard in my own sexuality. She is beautifully black. She is the disease I fear I have already fallen into.

My sexuality is my own death and life. Singularly, breath giving and breath violating.

Demimonde

We should all live more provocatively if only we had a secret life.

Still, while most of us do live more than one life, it’s not the one, or two, that we should have selected if we could have at all. The kind of secret life I speak of is a demimonde: a half world, a mistress world where you can live the kinds of lives that you have ever dreamed of.

Like you, I too have a confession:

These extravagant worlds I have passed invisibly in and out of for most of my adult life. My thirst for secret codes, sensitive communication marked only by a symbol on a dirty car window or two rings of the phone coupled with shrewdness, lust for heartfelt adventure and the ability to make quick judgments have served as the grace in my gait to and from these worlds. Neatly and quietly I have married my waking life and these half lives, these mistress lives that I am only now leaking into the living light.

+

My demimonde is not one, nor two.

My demimonde may be a theme in a champagne play of crimson curtains, but I know not this concision. What I do know is that the through line of my mistress lives are the boiling of the blood; the letting go of everything you think I am. I swim behind mixed pseudonyms and defensible positions of power and location, but my charms are always the same. For I am no actor. I never have been.

I am the space you create away from your other masks. I am wispy, pillowy; the place you land in-between your breath of obligation. And work. And duty.

You are the switch that turns me on and lets-loose every literary alias that we could have ever been all this time. You do not know where I live, and I never want to know your façade. I do not want to know your simple chores, nor you – mine. Never will we wake in the same bed. We do not pass one another in public, with our husbands and girlfriends meeting unknowing eyes in the middle of our median lives.

Sometimes I am your secret.

Sometimes you are mine.

+

On the nineteenth floor she is waiting for me in the striped chair. When the elevator doors open she uncrosses and crosses her legs. I can see her stockings and her garter and the sly grin in her mascara makeup.

Our greetings and salutations are not composed of words. For I think that if they were, we might find ourselves in love or flirting with some other four letter words as simple as: Soon. Can’t. Wait.

Instead, we keep it simple. We stay with lust. And a much bigger word: Escape.

The restaurant is not open but the door before us is. As we pass through the empty restaurant we can hear the musical movement of dishes and pots and pans and the scents of preparation. The bases and the heat of cuisine wafts in and around us, concealing us from the noonday outside.

She drops my hand from the lace of hers and walks up to the window. Sighing, she looks down and out and over the afternoon city. She says conquer me.

She says, seduce me. With a word. Or four.

Standing behind her, I whisper into her ear and speak in eloquent tongues – my story of devouring her. I kiss the ridge on the neck. Her hands grip onto my hips and I press harder into her. The diamond on her ring sparkles and disperses light all over our corner of this hotel. I reach around and up and into her skirt. Over the stockings and garter and… she is bald and heaving and naked underneath in the invisible places that she will take back into her office in only a couple of minutes.

I can hear somebody behind us, setting a table in a white coat. I am certain he spots us, for a short moment there is no sound. Then, sound again. Next to us, our table is set. The champagne glasses sit unused. I hear someone moving behind me and I press harder underneath her clit, finally sliding inside her.

Here, our permission is only in the simple repetition of our quiet, weekly lunchtime presence, where this restaurant is closed, but the door is always open.

She turns around and I cup her question mark of a backside. I move up and down the pleat in her taught skirt. She tells me to kiss her hard. She says that her husband knows. And she thinks he likes knowing about our secret.

She tells me to kiss her hard again. With the back of her hand she brushes my cheek and I know it is over.

She takes the first elevator down. She waits as the doors are closing and utters four letter words: This is the… Last. Time. Good…

Bye.

+

I am Speed Dial Number 9.

When she takes her men into bed, she keeps her phone near. She holds down her whimper just as she holds down the number 9 on her keypad. She rings me in and in circles of light opens her bed and her sex to me miles and lives away.

On her unattended phone I can hear the rustling of sheets. The soft meeting of the headboard and the wall. Thrusts counting her breath. I can hear her whimpering. She is begging. She is beckoning, silently as if there is somebody in the other room: Fuck me. Please, fuck me.

Voice mail can only go for so long and I only have a partial recording of one of her phone calls. I think about this recording for we cannot continue forever and I want my tee shirt from the experience for my dying days.

+

She is her own demimonde, the high priestess of her life, and others. She is mistress to many and the world calls her a whore. Her name is Angela and every time I remember this because, within her is an Angel.

We met years ago and I do not believe that Angela is her real name. She is a prostitute and I think that she may be the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. And while she has imparted the stories of her life, she has not told me with any convincing, her real name. Angela, afterall, is inappropriate for what she is.

She wears a Bindi, that Hindu red dot between the eyes. Even in the winter she wears very little clothing when she answers the door. She is tan and her body is as perfect as you could imagine from a sculpture. I think that she likes to tease me, always with her body and the cut lines of her panties underneath her transparent robes and shawls.

She never leaves me alone in any room for too long even though she confides that I am her only real friend. She tells me that her family no longer knows where she lives. All they remember is that the world calls her a whore.

I kissed her once, deeply and madly on the lips as though we both we needed it. But the smoke and the drink got the best of us and we only both began laughing.

I have been to many of her homes over the years. She moves frequently and I wonder silently who moves all of her furniture so much of the time. I worry when I do not hear from her for months on end. Sometimes strange phone numbers show-up on my phone and I am left only with messages. Quick updates.

Then, last year, the calls stopped.

I do not know if Angela is alive or dead, or if she ever was. For there was always something half-living and half-dead about her brilliance. I, however, have not changed my phone number. There is a secret part of me that hopes she will find me, find this story and read her name in these words; and call me; carry me up and away to an invisible city where nobody knows our name and we sit in the champagne sunlight of the futuristic world we have only ever known in the movies.

+

I often think of painters at the opening of their new exhibitions. I wonder if their internal trepidation in the opening is on account of the fact that their secret is being made public. I often think that the great ones were exhibitionists at heart. Exhibitionists of the heart.

For while these three girls began with a matter obscured by lust and the mad derisions of a hungry being, they all ended as the best phone calls do: with love and a smile. Memories of a life well lived and a heart beating in concert with breath.

…these are the most erotic things: reminiscences that bring you back to the anxiety of want and of being alive.

Half alive in a mistress world.

The Church

There is something that speaks to the sold, unseen darkness in me. It tells me that I want filth. Complete filth.

This voice never lies. But something in its timbre tells me that I am being mislead.

This voice tells me that it does not matter how you get to heightened sensation. To divine pleasure. To car crash red and blacked-out ambulance light rides. This voice tells me that, whatever extreme they term it – bondage, masochism or pain – you will simply call it inspired divinity.

This cave wind of an alto voice is the same one which tells me that I love you. But, tucked away in its whispery breath is the truth that you should know: I love you best when I am leaving.

+

We are floating atop a black and white checkered floor. Barely standing, the brick walls have blackened cubbies. From the middle of the room it appears as though there are holes in the walls all around us. Holes for the reprobates and perverts alike. For where there is not dungeon light red on the brick walls, there are caves of darkness.

We are standing in one such cave, one such hole. We are so far away from the center of this strobe light floor. The light sweeps this underground like a broom. This demi monde, this underworld where the leather chains pace in celebratory circles and beckon the darkened night above us.

From here, in the basement of this church, the music whirls and pounds. It is the sound of industrial alley ways and black and, moments of my eighties youth.

The girl, the accomplice, and I are standing with our legs staggered. My sex on her leg and her sex on my leg. In the filthy light her face is white, her lips – crimson. I lean in…

From here, the voyeurism intersects with the exhibitionism and it is perfect.

+

The antithesis, the ivory girl with the platinum hair, is sleeping next to me. I am in her bed for the first time in a near eternity. A giggle in me almost surfaces while I watch her perfect shoulder slowly heaving in concert with her sleeping breath.

But I know, if I leave this bed before she does – in the least I said everything that a car crash can’t. After her orgasm, in the middle of the drunken watch wind down, I whispered to her with my hoarse, coarse voice: I am madly in love with you.

I do not know this love from my rational mind, nor from much more than a couple of baskets of experience. But I know this love. When I leave her, I taste it on the tip of my first cigarette and I see it in the highway lanes swerving endlessly back to my gray, morning bed.

+

Underneath the church, in blackened Sunday night church, the caged animals are pacing and spinning with intent. The husky thump of music is pushing us all into an uncultivated, erotic frenzy where leather and vinyl aren’t enough to quench our eye’s thirst, nor our sex’s hunger. But it is all there, down under.

At the instance of a song, she, my accomplice in this filthy feat, leaves my heated side to twirl and heave in the middle of the dance floor. Minutes later she returns and whispers into my ear: You like to see me dance with other people, don’t you?

I nod and she returns to that center so far away from my bloody heart.

I watch her tease and nod and reach for the sex outside of herself. And for this I am proud. I valorize those that push beyond themselves. Beyond their comfort, for some inspired divinity.

In the red darkness, I instruct my church girl to reach into my pants after she shoots more alcohol down her throat. And she does: She squeezes my cock. Then, hurriedly, we leave. For more filth awaits us.

+

I am not opposed to pushing our limits. I am not opposed to pushing our language to a place where the heightened intent is manifested by our very lips and our throaty obbligato.

She calls me daddy. She says, please. She whimpers and moans, urging me forward. Beyond thinking this dirty, I think it brave. In her timbre, I hear honesty. I hear something authentic; hers. Ours. Mine.

At her house there is a flogger.

I do not know this until the dirty morning light convinces me so, but the floor is filthy, strewn with pieces of her life. Books, clothes, boxes; and unkempt life. She lays down and with her perfect moonlit tits in the air, I begin playfully teasing her nipples with the leather fingers of the flogger.

Then, I whip her hard and intently. Devilishly. Deliciously. At first, she does not even flinch.

+

Before you: There is the girl and there is everything else.

There are matters of the heart and there is everything else.

In and out of all the rooms I have inhabited, I am searching for my center.

I do not know if love lives in that circle, or outside of it. I do not know if my love is enough for one. And I do not know if another’s love is enough for me.

I do not know my center. But laying next to her in the gray wakening of a snowy morning and I know that I feel a center rising, a little to my left. A little ways from the center that I had always pictured in my concentration.

Beyond her, outside of her – the platinum girl with the musical shoulder – there is the filth of trying to just make it through a day. The filth of an industrial world and commerce and making ends meet and bills piling up on a dusty table.

In everything is an element of just trying to find your center.

+

Smack me awake with your skin. Push me to arise into the life I always wanted.

Touch me as though you mean it.

Feel me, kneed me, as though you want me.

If you do not know the words, I am a forgiving ape. For the words escape my passions too, with mean and uncompromising frequency.

If you do not know the words, then tell me with everything else you have.

+

Leave me in limbo, leave me in a grave.

Leave me. Or love me. Leave me not in a place where so many live their lives: in the middle and uncertain.

Love me or leave me. If it is the former, then may it be forever. If it is the latter, then leave me altogether and your taste I never wish to know again.

Like my entire white body, you are burned before this stake.

Sex and Death

Sex rides bareback on the horse of death and I am straddling a massage table with a girl between my legs. There is a girl on the other side of her, sucking on her nipples, kissing her neck. Their cunts are exposed to one another. Their legs are interlaced. There are vultures standing around us, watching.

Even the guy sitting behind the girl that is prodding and devouring my girl on the table has raven eyes. He is stealing touches of my girl’s thighs like he is stealing meat off a carcass. Thighs. Ribs. Breast. Meat.

To my right there is a man standing behind his girl. Her shirt has been pulled up and he is fondling her tits, watching us.  Another couple stands next to them, again – watching us with hungry eyes.

And that dark place inside of me is fulfilled. Like it came in through the veins, hard and saline. At the impetus of drug, my adrenaline glands swell with delight.

+

We are meaning-making machines. Like we’re baby making machines. Like we’re death machines, alive.

Just like making babies – those little legacies – our bodies were also built for one thing: death and dying. Always moribund we are in our peacock strutting.

Like you: I am always groping for meaning in my life. In other’s lives.

I have no God and have been seeking something as a replacement for as long as I can remember. Like the heroin junkie, I use my drug of choice to elevate me higher; to pad my fingers on the pulse of God.

Like the heroin junkie, I have used my body to take that drug.

But unlike the heroin junkie, I have used sex as that drug.

+

We came for adventure. It is why we are together at all on this night. It is why she is even wearing this short skirt at all. I haven’t seen her for ages, but adventure was what we both begged for.

She wants two men. At once. She wants a flood of the masculine, but I know she wants something more literal: she wants swords and blades and the unforeseen taunt of blood. She wants a full human experience before she dies. She wants something to make her eyes roll into the back of her head.

She is like me. She is not afraid of taking up space on this sharp edge. This slippery, rounded corner.

She relishes the darkness in the crevices. I can taste it on her breath.

Next to the massage table is a hot tub. There are naked bodies configured together in the heat of the water. In the dim red light, the bodies in the frothing water touch and suck and take consolation in their fleshy desire.

+

She has never seen these things: bodies sweating and pounding together in feverous chills. She has never seen bodies entangled like this. Not now and with everything sexual breathing so explicitly and raw. And it is surprising that, while there are beds and condoms and porn and cabanas all around us – only an hour ago there was only nervous, drunk conversation. Transformed in only minutes and there now are naked torsos everywhere; flesh over the top of clothing and through undone zippers and buttonholes. And reaching into it all are hands and fingers. Tongues and cocks sliding into hot openings.

On her neck is the scent of sex. It is from the Brazilian girl that is tangled in legs with her on the massage table. This other girl is licking her, sucking on her nipples.

Over the shoulder of my girl, the hungry Brazilian girl kisses me. But I pull away as though the intimacy was stronger than sound. It’s the pungency. Her breath, her wind is hot, and stale. Like a frozen, sweaty breeze it wreaks of sex. And more than that, the Brazilian girl that wants me to finger her cunt smells like death.

+

There is another girl that is standing next to the massage table. She is kissing and touching everybody on our island of a table. Leaning-in and she offers my girl a double-dildo. It comes from her purse and even I am surprised by this large cock sight – from such a small purse.

The girl leans up against the table and the guy she is with unbuttons her pants.

In the composition of the light washing on them, this sight is perfectly hot. It is perverted no more than a human body is: the girl’s jeans are falling down her hips; his hand is digging down the back; her skin is glistening like watery fire in this red light.

+

Sometimes I fantasize about the dirtiest thing I can. I attempt to come-up with a scenario that is the filthiest. Darkest. A situation that doesn’t engage me immediately. But rather, I crave a fantasy that, in its sophistication, pushes me to analyze and cognate and drop into thought to such a fathom that, for minutes at a time, I am unable to surface for breath.

+

She kisses me on the neck. I am tender with the lack of sensation of so many weeks behind me. I am weak at the touch of her tongue.

We meet lips and my adrenaline turns to rust.  I can only think of the sepia actresses of the golden age. I can only think of watching old films and laying in bed all night long, naked, with wine and telling life’s stories until dawn comes with someone that I want to love.

After awhile of awkward body poses on the massage table, we move on. She wants to see something else. She wants to fulfill her fantasy. Like me, she wants something dirtier. Unholy. Unseen. 

I let her take the lead. We are comfortable now. Expectations have dissipated and she is, like me, safe. I watch her lead me around. And when I close my eyes I sometimes think of falling asleep. Waking-up and rolling over to somebody that I want.

Here, in this sex club of debauchery manifested and all I can think of is love.

+

She has my cock in her mouth. We are next to a gigantic table that is tangled and teeming with masses of naked skin. There are groans, rolling movements and overall, the skin on the dark leather looks like a writing sea. A storm of human water.

Only a long while ago and I would have been intoxicated by the sight of this: naked bodies around me, heaving and gyrating in hot delight. The only ones in clothes are watching all the cabanas around us, the beds, the couches, the corners. There are couples sharing their lovers with starving mouths as pulsing sexuality moans and cries all around us in huddles and puddles. Drips and drops.  Smacks and slaps.

At first, I am throbbing. Hard. I am in her mouth and wanting to pierce her skull with my cock. Then,

I am drained as though my feet are a grate and all the liquid life inside drains into the city sewer below.

There are naked bodies around me and I can actually taste the Brazilian girl’s death breath on my tongue.

+

Moments like these make me want to live a normal life. Have yellow pedestrian moments. Wake-up at 8 a.m. and go to work. Have lunch at noon. Pick up some milk the store. Mow the lawn. Spy the big blockbusters at the movies on the weekends.

+

I bend her over the black sea of humanity. I lean her into the mass of heaving bodies. I dip my tongue into her heat and for the first time that night I am afforded a taste.

And she is beautiful. Feeling her buck into me and I am lost in the thought that:

To possess the aptitude to bounce playfully off the springboards in your life is an undervalued skill. But this girl, on this night, has shown me so much. She was attentive when I needed her to be. She was reverent. She made me feel safe in the same way that I prayed I had made her feel. She was curious. She had never seen anything like this:

Cabanas full of beds and people and whimpering and bodies smacking together in raw sensual fear.  She had never seen people bent over the bar, taking everything another had to give, from behind.

And she dove-in: on the massage table she kissed the Brazilian girl with death on her breath, but did not go down on her. She kissed the other couple that became entangled with us.

And so now there is a boy standing above us. And as I am sucking on her for the first time, at the end of our long night – I push her toward him.

+

Apprehensively, the boy’s pants fall from his hips. His cock jumps out. And slowly he moves closer to her mouth. 

This is what we were heading toward all night.

Once her lips wrap around his cock, I feel the chain complete. I am this much closer to humanity. Over my shoulder is a couple, peeking-in. Touching each other.  Several more bodies close-in on us. They touch, closer. They breathe, deeper.

I am naked. My pants are at my ankles. I spin her around and my flaccid cock slides in and out of her mouth.

And all I can think about is that I am as far away from love as I ever have been. I feel something slipping away in the same rhythmic pulse that she is taking me in and out of her mouth.

I want to give her a full experience in so much as I want to give myself a full experience. An authentic experience. And in less than ten minutes, after the boy has buried his face deep into her cunt, I will pull-up my pants and we will leave.

+

I understand why we value freedom. I know that liberty means choice.

But I also understand our obsessions with these rights in so much that we are living – bound by sinewy material – in a body. We are living in our tomb.

Since the time of the Greeks we have built our rational culture on the notion that we can reach for the world beyond us, toward the world of forms and everything spiritual. And we do this through thought. Through pushing our minds in experiment and formation, as hard and as abstractly as we can.  Implicit in this same notion is that we do not get to a comprehension of the bigger worlds above us through our body.

Our body means decay. Our body means prison. Our body means death.

+

I have rewound the movies of my life and found myself fucking my way toward night in days that I have never even known the sun of. 

In all of my sunless days, where I bask only in the rays of silent retreat and sweaty summer sheets, I have never known a greater heroin than sex. I have never known why I sought my intoxication in the needle of sexuality.  But in this bending from love to lust, from the heart to the cock, from the silent spaces I inhabit in the bustling of bars and parrots talking – I am no greater than any lesser being.

I am a death machine, alive.

Lust as Rust

Lust is a rust that can protect the heart from falling in love.

The sun is reflecting off the mirror buildings and I have pulled up to a light. I catch summertime legs in my side window. Walking down the sidewalk is a sun-tanned girl in a flower skirt. I can see her calves working and pulsing with each step.

Her whole make-up: her shoulders, her hair, her gait – all send a writhing but silent pulse down my torso.

When the light turns green, I keep my eyes on the girl and for the first time, I see her face: delicate and beautiful. Cute. Maybe adorable.

Immediately, I turn back to my initial, primitive sensation. Of mad lust. Of thinking about the men that inhabit the valley between her thighs. I think about her sounds. Her coos. Her purr.

With my heart twisted in a knot from weeks behind me, it dawns on me: my only sense of appreciation of the girl was as an object of sexual fantasy. Delicious delight.

But I do not curse myself.

I state a hypothetical and ask myself: What if her words made me squirm with delight like her body does? Then she would become complication-realized. To keep a window between us and her on the street is safe.

Lust is easy. Or at least, it can be. In lust, I can take her with me without her knowledge, without her consent, to pick at and play with, later that night in my darkened bed.

Alone and under my own red badge of courage, years away from love.

+

I have a bondage girl. She is red with lust and love and more than that: she is my symbol for everything in-between. She is the stage and the fight, the spotlight and the red cape that I charge into, head-down – horns forward.

Without even touching me: my bondage girl has tied my wrists to posts on the bed of intrigue. The mattress is stuffed plump with oversized words. The pillows have been fluffed with our breath. And the nakedness I feel in this dimly-lit room is her eyelashes fluttering like the chemical electricity in my body.

We built this bed together. And now she has affixed me to it, willingly, with the ropes of circumstance.

I am blindfolded by my thoughts and when I close my eyes, I feel her wind slap my face. Tease my torso. Tickle my thighs.

And in my confusion – in this unknowing of what exactly she is and where exactly in my body she resides  – I try to only focus on this supreme eroticism.

This anticipation.

I want the erotic as a virtue but I am gnawing through my lips, ready to scream.

+

I am not great.

I am not the girl walking down the street with the legs and ass. I do not make cars stop.

And I will have you know, with my lips sewn shut in a mid-scream: this is not why I dress myself with the invisible adornments of everything inside of me – on the outside. My emotions on my garments.

I am not edible to the common girl.

Like so many around me, I do not prey on simple emotions and, in the span of twenty minutes, have a girl bamboozled. Bedazzled.

I notice girls. But as a fractured whole.

I notice the moments about girls: the curve of an ass, fingers gripping a glass, calves extended upward in heels, a hip over the top of jeans, the round of a mound under a windy summer dress.

I notice the moments: a gesticulation, an articulation, a moment of vulnerability and an eye gone glossy at the mention of a loved one.

We are all fractured parts assembled as drifting molecules pulled together by the magnets of cognition.

And so when I catch a girl with that look in her eye, when her whole body is tipped in my direction and looking at me – I know several things:

I feel it. And,

This look, that look right there – it took time. It required an assembly of pieces. An amount of cognitive dexterity.

It is this look that tells me: she sees the invisible things. The things that others cannot, do not.  Will not see in and on me. Or around us, in this aquarium sea.

+

My bondage girl has red hair. But, like most everything else about her, it’s not obvious. The red is a mysterious red. Reckless and streaked. In some way, it is quiet unless you look closer.

But if you close your eyes, she is loud. You can feel her sitting next to you as though the wind curls around her body as though the wind even knows that it’s too delicate to ever dare push over. You can feel this wind, being diverted and bent and meeting only again once on your face.

This girl has worked me into a firestorm without even touching me.

It’s her words. Her moments.

It’s how she crosses her legs when we’re talking. How she pulled her dress up her naked thigh as I was staring her in the eyes.

Certainly, there’s one facet that could be the catalyst for this swell of emotions: that’s she unavailable. More than that: She’s married.

But impossibly, the only catalyst that this provides to be is the one that helps me keep my hands in my lap. My hot, heaving lap.

+

There is an art to flirting in the same way that there is an art to patience.

To flirt well, one must also be patient and see the invisible things in others.

To flirt well, there must be a two-way road and the alchemical drugs must begin to swell.

The night before I was to see my red girl for our cabalistic night, she asked me what she should wear. And I answered as I always do: a dress.

Her hesitation said: Red. Danger.

Mine obliged and let it drift it away just before she said: red or black?

I said that black will disguise what’s underneath better. Wear black. I can’t know. I want to know. I don’t want to know. I can’t know what you’re wearing underneath because somehow,

this kind of lust will bring me closer to love.

That night, when she arrived in a black dress, with heels pushing her entire body up toward the heavens – I greeted her with a hug. I pressed my lips quietly on her naked shoulder.

And then the winds kicked up where it was once dead with silence.

+

Her whole body begins to lean into me as our words begin flying from our lips and kissing each other’s ears. There is so much to say, but little time to say it all.

For my bondage girl is straddling those poles of love and lust and alas, her life will pull her away from me in a short, stop light time.

My red girl, my bondage girl is loosening her self up. Sometimes her hair falls to her chest, as a lock for my eyes. And as she is leaning into me and I am leaning into her with only words but millions of miles away from touch, she fidgets with the hem of her dress.

She slides her dress up her thigh. Then down. And I know that I don’t need to see this with my eyes, I can feel it like a breeze, with my whole body. In this she is teasing me silently. She is saying: You want to know what is under this dress, don’t you?

You want to know the invisible things, don’t you?

+

Sometimes rust is red and sometimes it means decay. Other times it means something different. Something bigger. A commentary on time.

Whichever way the pendulum is swinging in my heart, this red rust keeps my love from lust. And my lust, alas, away from love.

Hours into our secret night and my bondage girl rises under the red lights of the patio. I press my lips quietly into her red shoulder again, and she disappears into the night. The knots of circumstance are cinched tighter around my wrists.

And the rust on my heartstrings begins to melt. I can taste its acidic leak in my belly…

Then, minutes later, I receive a note that says: there wasn’t anything under the dress at all.

And I think of the dirtiest word I can, then let it flip from my lips in a moment of silence: flirt.

+

She is a singer. Smoky in breath and dark and chalky in sexual timbre.

I have stayed away. I have obliged the ropes of this situation. I have embraced this rust between my love and lust. And I have refrained from seeing her sing. I have heard it and have barely bore this weight alone.

But she sent an invite. Said she would sing a torch song. For me.

A torch song. On fire.

Days later I saw her on the stage for the first time: in a red dress, under the spotlight.

Her dress quaked between her legs, as though her vocal wind was trilling all the way down, between her knees. Her calves ripped with heels and stretched her whole being beyond the club’s ceiling.

Stuck in-between expectation and hypotheses, I was paralyzed by her voice. By her presence. She and her wind dwarfed the whole place, my self and every word I could utter. I imagined her taste and licked it on my lips.

In a moment where song proves that words are sometimes taller than buildings, she sang it three times with the eloquence of a torch’s fiery intent. Looking at my silhouette, she sang:

“Don’t go to strangers, darling, come to me.”

+

There is a part of my childhood reverie, still-existent, that tells me:

I believe that if I could untie myself from these ropes of circumstance and grab her, pull her closer and unleash my body’s dictionary on her witness - I could have her while still wanting her.

…as if my lust could bring me love…

Still, my adult fear whispers that there is fortune in these ropes. There is a treasure within this bondage and it is more than just the circumstance,

…because I know that if these ropes are loosened I may just grab her, pull her near; and not let her go…

+

I am red with love and lust. I cannot escape it. I do not want to escape it.

Since I was a child, this is my fate – like yours: To find love and lust and relish in it.

Soak your self in it.

From the ancestral lips I have heard it whistle toward me: Love is the greatest virtue in the world.

Do not fool your self into thinking otherwise.

I want to spend my days with those that see the invisible things, like my red, bondage girl who straddles so many of the invisible, unspoken worlds that we all inhabit - but only allude to with lazy language.

And if I spend my days soaked with the heat in-between the poles of these red fires, then I am grateful for my run. For my days were lived vibrantly and predicated on the greatest.

The biggest.

The beginning and the end.

Everything red.

Perverse

You didn’t know that you were supposed to be my last hurrah. Neither did she, the girl that was supposed to be my new beginning. My future.

I kept it quiet. Just like I did during that last night, that last hurrah, with you. Like the most cherished of all my sensations it was: a dark, perverse secret. All through our night, until the sun rose – and I was always running beyond you. But you didn’t know that. You thought I was stationary. But I was running: Beyond that night. Beyond the hungover, dirty morning. Toward another. Toward her.

For come the day after and I was leaving my solitary days to fall in love.

This was supposed to be my last dirty hurrah. Something I needed, to stop that surge of venom.

Now, I am huddled over this desk, over this bottle months later. A week’s worth of cigarette butts in the ashtray and I still feel like I am coming down off this din, this protracted bender. Even to this day, I have no certainty of why, or even how long, she was in my heart. The weariness has subsided, the courage is regaining force, but the nausea is still everywhere.

In these smokey times, I like to drift away. Think about better times. Better nights. Like our night. That last night. That swan song…

+

Our evening began with the still gray twilight. It seemed that, the closer night came, the hotter the flirting became.

You were sitting across from me when, under the table you kicked up your legs onto my knees. Your legs were wide and your calves were sawing into my thighs. While I was speaking, I was visualizing the delights: your short black dress, spread open. People passing by. Seeing. Watching. Feeling. Unabashed sexuality. Heaving lust.

I stopped speaking.  You grinned.

The server left the bill. You ground your ankles deeper into my legs. We both grinned at her and left.

When we got in the car, you kicked off your shoes and put your manicured toes on the dash. At first you let me see what you were wearing underneath, below. Then you rubbed yourself through your velvet panties.  You looked at me, intoxicated. The lust glistened on your lips. Then you licked them and I reached down for your slow bucking mound.

+

Love is the most prized virtue in the world.

I see it all around me. In so many exclamations. Points of profundity.

Everybody talks about it.  But few actually do it.

And when I meet somebody that runs from love: I want to jog alongside them. For these few, the word refuses to whistle from their lips, as though it is venom. A curse. Or worse: a lie.

For there is a correlation that is suffocating us like a noose: love equals happiness.

+

I don’t remember our first kiss. Afterall, we never said anything about love.

I do remember the summer patio, buzzing with noise and glasses and people making sounds below the melody of the music.

Again, you lifted your feet up and onto my thighs. This time, with your sharp heels knifing and grinding into me at the swivel of your hips.  As nighttime was settling-in, you reached down and slid your finger under your panties, peeling it halfway over. 

You were watching me, watch you. Licking your lips.

Liquor brave on that lively patio, swirling with secrets and darkened dirtiness, I leaned toward the apex of your splayed legs. I fell to my knees and slithered my tongue in circles around your clit. Then as my exclamation point, I slid up and down your entire slit, darting once in and out of you.

I sat erect, back up and in my seat. Slyly I wiped my chin and looked around.

On this patio full of life and the mention of love and buzzing blinders: We were not spotted.

+

Agape. Eros. Philia. Xenia. Storge. Pragma. Mania. Ludus.

These are some of the types of love. Styles of love. And these are not all.

In a grayscale world, love is fluid. Love is a current. White-caps. A torrent.

And when a dam is broken and a fluid flood ensues: Some drown. Some die. Some wave their arms frantically, for help.  Others, run.

+

We were leaving for the next destination, a birthday party – and I had no idea why I was taking you. My friends would never see you again.  I said that I wouldn’t even introduce you. I wanted you to be invisible so they wouldn’t ever question me.

Then, as we got into the car, again, you opened your legs and flipped your dress up. It was now dark.

You reached over and pulled me into you. People were passing by. Sidewalk smiles and feet shuffling. Stopping. Then walking on again.

I was heated and breathing from my ears. You crawled into the back seat and pulled me onto you. I flipped around and you ground your cunt on my raw, throbbing cock.

You whispered, again, that – last night, you watched yourself cum in the mirror as you thought of my cock, fucking you.  And you loved it. But you do not love me.

Adroitly, you had me unzipped and my cock was up and hard and you were stroking it. I did not help in any of this. I was pinned in position. Holding you. Holding me. Holding secrets in this darkened car on the side of the road.

Desperately, you began bouncing on me. Riding me. Gyrating on me. And then I was inside you. Fucking you. Opening you as wide as I could.

I reached around and filled up every hot opening. With my fingers, my cock, my tongue, my neck.

I wanted to flip you over, onto your back. But I saw lights behind me. I pivoted around.

Behind us, a cop with his lights on.

Above me, you with your hot cunt grinding on my fears, were looking into the cop’s car. For who knows how long…

+

I don’t run. I don’t jog.

I thought it was more appropriate to swim.  Now I go out to the empty pool on haunted afternoons and below the weeping willows, tear from one end to the other. Like something is chasing me.

Like love.

Like the ghostly silhouette of a girl.  My secret girl. My disappointment girl.

Because it is true: I didn’t achieve the love that I was leaving you for. I went stupidly for it, and I didn’t even see the flood – from the side. For I had my eyes fixed on the light, as she told me to do. Then, again, I was blindsided by somebody I trusted.

+

After the voyeur cop, we drove away for the party. We found a parking spot by the sex store. The adult arcade. The last one in town.

I said, let’s go. You said you wanted to know. So… go.

There was a girl in one of the arcades, lying on her back, reading under the red light. We shut the door and slipped her the money. In this dirty din, the lights came-on and I pinned you up against the window.

Suddenly your mouth became dirty. You said, fuck your self. Rub that hot cunt.

I looked over your shoulder as I pounded at your ass in this sticky cave of sin.

+

I do not blame. Her. You. Them.

Life is death. Love is a torrent. Dams are abuse. Violence tears us apart. Then, floods kill.

Something that is the most prized virtue in the world, is also something that has teeth.

Love is an angel disguised as a demon. The devil himself.

And ardor’s heat is nothing more than vapors from hell.

+

We were surrounded by lesbians, dykes, bisexual and uncertain girls alike. Friends and new foes sat by us on the club’s couch.  And while, in all the Forum letters of my youth, this was the basis for a paralyzing tale – this was not the case.

Lesbians tend toward supreme dislike with me; and near-hate, when a girl is sitting atop of me, grinding her still-wet cunt-in-panties on my still-hard cock-in-pants. The deejay spun his records and few apart from the lesbians seemed to notice.

I pulled-out a nipple and sucked. Hard. Bit. Gently.

I looked up and our hostess, my friend, was standing above us. She said, cool it. My mother is here.

You sat next to me and made conversation with the girls. My hand crawled beneath your ass and I slipped fingers into your hot hole. Invisibly, I fucked you while you traded business cards.

+

It was a blur, but we drove to the other end of town, where your car was; to the bar we began our night at. You said you needed the bathroom and went inside. I stayed out.

You reappeared with shots, which you shot. When we got to your car, you pulled-out two cold beers from your purse.

We sat in your car, listened to music and I tried to forget tomorrow and the girl that I was going to love. Just for a couple more minutes more, I swam in the sea of sex and forgetfulness; my drug.

But we didn’t sit quietly for the proposed short time. No, a couple more minutes turned into an hour in your backseat, sucking on your juices and thrusting my cock into your drunken mouth at perverse angles.

+

I drove back to your house, because you couldn’t. We appeared at the front door, with beers in-hand. Your babysitter answered. She interrogated. Gave me the evil eye. Was disappointed. Then, left.

We went into your bedroom. You pulled out some smoke, opened some wine. Took off your clothes and slid my cock inside you.

I didn’t kiss you. I was as far from love as I could be.

I fucked you hard in that soft bed. I pounded down and onto you. I smacked your tit. You smacked me in the face.  I rolled off you and two minutes later and,

Your five-year old daughter walked into the room and crawled into bed with us. Startled, you leapt out. I was naked, and hid it like a secret. I asked her about her ice cream. Then, she fell asleep and I slithered out of the bed. Dirty and ashamed. Cold and hungry.

The sun was rising when we finally tired of fucking; and pinning your legs up behind your head in your living room. We fell asleep on your sticky couch with no blankets. I was shivering, cold.

I slipped out of your house at dawn without a word. You could have cared less.

And this is just the way I wanted it.

I want perversity in all my exits.

Stop Go Light

“Real love is the love that sometimes arises after sensual pleasure: if it does, it is immortal; the other kind inevitably goes stale, for it lies in mere fantasy.”

- Giacamo Casanova

+

At the thought of her I am wet. Hard. Punched drunk by my own venom, surging.

At the thought of her I am pulsing. My bloody heart and the valley between my legs writhes alive as though spring has come and fall has receded into its darkened winter.

At the thought of her I am barrel-chested, expansive with possibility and my future is like the universe, still exploding from that single point; ballooning outward.

Forever. Outward.

+

We are 

not supposed to be together.

We are

probability and uncertainty and the undying promise that tomorrow may never come.  Tomorrow, the phone may not ring.  Tomorrow, the universe may contract and never expand again.

Tonight, however, and the moon is full.  There is still more time until winter’s coat chills this land.

+

Flying through the night, wedged between two broken racing stripes, we are gliding down the highway.  She has my shirt unbuttoned, untucked and my belt buckle is becoming untangled as we speak.

She is over the console and reaching into my pants as though she has a fever.  She is biting at my neck.

Her teeth are like her breath. Like her juices when I am between her legs: like citrus cacti. Sharp and big.

She numbs my tongue.  She wets my black and blue neck.

+

When I leave her, at her car in the morning; at her house in the dead of night:

I can’t think of big things. All I can feel are small things, like:

I can’t breathe a complete breath.

I feel like the Antarctic seas. Clean and clear. Washed over.

When I leave her,

It is as though simply standing before the question is good enough.  As though she is the question and our time, the wind.

All I can feel are the small things. Walking away from her and I know only simple truisms:

I miss her.

I want her.

I need her.

On my boomerang return back to her at the beginning of the week and all I know are the big things like:

I miss her.

I want her.

I need her.

+

Last week it was over. This week it is hanging over my head.

She is asleep and I am watching her tiny torso heaving. She is making sounds of breath and lips and mouth.  She is exhausted and lopes her leg over mine.  I lose myself in the air after midnight, the touch of her naked skin on mine and, for many minutes, I listen to the cars passing her house. Her bed.

This is the first time that I have laid with her, in her house. In her bed. In the night.

A couple of times and I even fall asleep in this strange white room.

She says she loves me.  She says she loves another.  There is a picture of him across the room and I wonder how he loves her. If he really loves her at all. If my love is that love, the kind of love, that she loves.

The card I gave her two weeks ago is on her desk. It says: Leap and the net will appear.

Then I come-to and remember that her leg is loped over mine.  My leg is now tingling because all the blood is in my heart, but because I do not know if I will ever be this close again, I only blink, look over her moonlit body and breathe deeply as though I am sleeping and this is a dream that I will always remember.

+

I don’t see intoxication enough. Not in those around me.

I don’t see paralysis enough. Not in those I share words with.

I don’t see complete disasters, out and in the open.  Not truly. Not completely.

I often wonder if we have surrounded ourselves with the comfortable ones. The fearful ones. The delicate ones.

This is life afterall. Delicate and pungent. Short and squat, like a lateral vessel sloshing its liquid time back and forth.

To become a complete person one must endure disasters. Messes. Paralysis. Intoxication. And they must shiver awake a little more, each time they are called upon by these disasters. Messes. Moments of pure terror.

+

She is sitting before me. A jean skirt, tiny and riding up on her thighs.

The tattoo on her hip is peeking out.

She crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. Puts her foot up and on my thigh.

I can see the dark triangle between her legs. But it is her head and her heart that are magnets for my eyes.

Cars in the night wash light around her head like a halo.  She smiles at me and I am stricken.  We are sitting with others and so I don’t say:

Somewhere between all this sex and love is power.

And in every small thing I do and say with her throughout the night, I will make certain that she feels this power, at least once.  Thing is: the power may not be anywhere outside of her and maybe she has known it her whole life.

+

A couple of weeks ago, when I thought her heart was smiling only at me:

She was lying next to me and I kissed her spine as morning peered in through the windows. I told her that she is the most beautiful girl in the world. She will tell me, hours later, that she thought I was talking in my sleep.

We haven’t slept much together in all the beds we inhabit.  Typically, we go from ravaging to comatose. However, I have heard her childish breathing turn to an eloquent snore.  And I know that we have slept, invisible hours upon others because I have heard our alarms shrilling because responsibility is always standing before us.  Calling our names as that tail end of our time together.

Always, always, we rise early early early in the morning. She is always off to something, or someone and breakfast is just not something we do.

+

Right now I am thinking of all the ways that I want to devour her.

Right now I am thinking of how I will not take our next moment for granted.  How I don’t know how to, because she is quick. Here. Then, gone.

Right now I know that this is all I have: these thoughts of her…

+

The last time I tasted her, weeks and lifetimes ago now:

She was sitting on my face while I stroked my self in front of her.  I was lapping at her citrus juices. I nibbled, sucked and tasted all that I could. In that sober morning moment, I took every sensation with me and stuffed it into my memory’s pocket for future use.

When I exploded all over my stomach, she slowly crawled off me and sighed.

I grinned, knowing that this is how we begin our days together.

+

It is said that if you don’t have any disasters to endure, you may need to create some. To be complete. To become whole.

I am nervous and naked, crawling from her bed because it’s too hot to sleep. Because I can’t sleep. Because I just want to watch her, even though I know that she needs this rest. This sleep.

She is exhausted, like my heart.

I put on my pants and shirt. I slip on my shoes. I am stricken. The sadness wells in my sternum and I am too nervous to tell her that I love her with all of my heart.  Instead I kiss her on the shoulder.  Musically she says, call me later please…

I lock her door, open my car door and drive into the night, alone and under the pale of all love’s stoplights.

The Saddest Poem of All, Tonight

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

From “I can write”
by Pablo Neruda

+

I did not meet her standing on the ground. No, instead we met over a thousand feet up, far above the city lights. Standing, and we were looking down.

As the clown in my circus of will and ambition, I have fought the fight of attrition.

I am not a poet, nor sorcerer by trade, but I have believed in love as apathy’s raid.

+

If you want to see the saddest boy tonight, pull your mirror and see me, sitting across from thee.

If you have never seen love unfulfilled, stare across this table as though your trembling made you able.

I am not a poet, nor sorcerer by trade – but if you wish toward the sea’s winds to see the sun fade – from this life I am born. From this life, I am torn.

+

I am Wednesday.

I am heartbroken.

I am me, unable to dress. Unable to eat.

The simplest of duties, stricken by fate in the circus of this life.

+

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

From “I can write”
By Pablo Neruda

+

Thank you for giving me this. This is much and more and the score of my days.

For when I have been empty, broken and struck by the light of eve, you crawled from beneath me to leave.

+

I want simple. And settle down. I want the sun to rise and fall over our heads. I want no pomp or pretense, instead I crave your intense,

Potential that only I can see.

Power that soars over me.

The drive and pistons burning free.

I am nothing more than thee.

(and I want nothing more for me)

+

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

From “I can write”
by Pablo Neruda

When Light Goes Black

I devoured you with a scream.

When I was done you said: Nothing is as sacred as it was before.

Shouting towards my center, I replied: I never knew that I would want you. Not like this.

But since the light, I ask: would you come, crawl closer? I think that I need to make a confession.

I do not crave you madly because I cannot have you. I do not want something I cannot have. The black places inside me are full of voids and cannot contain something any darker than the light that streamed into our hotel room that morning.

This light has led me to that space when, days later, I pulled out my phone to see this: You have done something to me. I am looking at things differently.

+

There was a leopard print robe in the hotel closet when we arrived. With the water pounding in the background, filling-up the whirlpool, you slipped out of your dress and dropped your panties. You wrapped the robe around your tiny body.

You poured something in the water and it foamed up to the top.

I crawled-in naked and was not deterred by the thoughts I was not having: You are not mine. You cannot be mine. But,

I am going to have you. Right now.

…I think…

In the water and I watched you in the mirror on the wall. You flipped your cat coat off your shoulders and crawled in the water next to me. I’m not sure what touched what first, if it was a thigh or an inerrant finger or drunken hand – because as soon as your skin was involved with mine, I blacked-out from the rush of intoxication.

For the next several minutes I have only taken with me the visions of the leopard robe on the floor and my mouth opening-up to devour all of you.

…and then our lips met. Hungrily. Met. Like they were long(ingly), lost (lust).

+

I am not bragging about this. I don’t brag about something I cannot have.

I whine. Then, I exalt.

You said: Damn you for making my sex life seem so mediocre. Then you said it again: Damnit. You said this because everything powerful is about two-way roads. Broad avenues. Highways where the traffic comes and goes.

Like you. To the mountains and sometimes over them. Away for the weekend. To your boyfriend. And then back.

+

I could not find the hole into your soul. So I pulled you on top of me as though the small addition of your weight would help me breathe again.

We sloshed the water up and over the edge…

Then we followed the waters rush and slid up and over the elevated tub. I watched you first. Your naked body before me, for the first time. Glistening. Wet.

I had been waiting for this moment, for a child’s winter. I had not been waiting for your kiss. No, I never thought it would come. Instead, I had been waiting, craving for your naked body, before me.

+

Since second one when I saw you, something inside my torso wrenched sideways. And when we talked, you looked at me like I have never been seen before.

…if everybody in your world gets this same treatment, then we are a band of enlightened beings…

But I do not get your steady ear. You come and go. We talk when we can.

With everything understood and oddly perfect – I still want only more. Like when you are holding the perfect dozen, but want the baker’s dozen – so you can carry twelve in one hand and one in the other. Because you want more even when you can’t carry anything else.

With you, I will take perfect in one hand and nothing in the other.

And I will keep grasping at everything in front of me…

+

It must have been late when we left the water. It must have been understood that there was more to say with our bodies because I don’t remember the walk to the bed. I only remember the process afterward, of trying to completely learn your body before the sun rose.

Your mouth was hungry like mine. You bit at me and I, carefully bit at you. Kissed you. Took your tongue and lips inside mine and sucked. Tasted. Ate.

Then you put me, hard, inside of you and I inflated and exhaled in a strong bellow. Seeing me inside of you was more than an act. It was the metaphor. The thesis. The scream.

I pinned your legs up and you did not look me in the eye.

I was right there with you, looking down at your closed eyes. I was there, in that cultivated moment, unabashedly loving your body and finding my ultimate intoxication embedded somewhere between your amazing body and touch and cunt and ass and legs; and the simply-complicated fact that you were here with me at all – when you could have been anywhere in the universe tonight.

+

Desperate for more of you, I went for your heat after I heard you sigh – saying: Go on. Please…

With a controlled rage, I buried as much of myself into you, sliding my tongue in and out of your soft spots. My fingers, flying in and out of you. You writhed in dirty delight.

A long while later, after I was satisfied with my exploration and learning of everything between your legs, I came back up to you. You grabbed my face and pulled me into your mouth.

Your legs were wild and splayed out and kicking in the air. You gripped me by the neck and then I, by yours. As I began fucking you; pounding down onto your hot, wet mound, I squeezed harder. Your tiny neck in my hands was strong and called for more. And as I began to leverage down and onto you with all of my weight, I was squeezing and thrashing your neck, your head into the pillows – slamming you up and down in a violent, choreographed fit of eroticism realized and desire exploding.

…in reciprocation, you squeezed my neck even harder. And for a second you even opened your eyes and looked up at me, in agony’s ecstasy…

+

Several hours later, I opened my eyes and to the sunlight streaming-in. I was terrified that you did not know what happened. I was terrified that it was a dream. Somehow, a mistake.

Then you moved when I moved. The sheet fell from parts of your body revealing your hip. Your tattoos. Your skin. My cock, still hard, brushed up against you.

I heard you sigh sweetly and so I came closer.

I knew our time was coming to an end, so I reached under the sheets, for what I had dreamt so heartily of, between your legs. You were already hot and wet, waiting for something like me.

I opened your ass and legs and buried my head between your fertile valley and began lapping at you. Your moan was a melody that bucked your hips into me and my tongue slid hotly inside of you.

With your stomach on the bed and I behind you, I reached under and gripped you by the hips – pulling you as close as I could to me. Even if that meant not breathing.

Because you know as well as I do: everything, absolutely everything, is a metaphor if not a fable.

For the next hour, I licked and sucked and touched and opened you up as wide as I could so that I could see and reach as far as I could inside of you. Because this may be the last time ever…

+

I’m not going to say I would cry. I’m not going to say that I haven’t stopped thinking about you. But we all know that in any linguistic negation it’s opposite – a positive affirmation – is always present. Without the positive there is no negative. Without the dark there is no light.

You said: Thank you for enhancing my senses. To that end, I want you to know that I have lived my subsequent days without you constantly paying homage to your sentiment. Alas, I am brighter. Sharper. Sadder. Empowered. Human.

And: I’m not going to say you make it easy for a boy to fall for you. So I have written it instead.

Sex and Intercourse

Sex is complicated.

Sex is synonymous with intercourse. Linguistically, I know why this is the case, but I don’t think that most of us do understand this correlation. This relationship, between sex and intercourse – in words.

Sex is different than how we typically talk about it. Sex is much more diverse and voluptuous than black and white.

Sex is intercourse. Sex is a dialogue. Sex is chemistry.

Sex is and isn’t penetration.

…I refuse to take any more poor lovers, tattered in clothing and mind, beggars by experience and ignorant by education…

(Myself included)

+

Sex is not nighttime. Not always, anyway.

Sex can be 10 o’clock in the morning after your lover invites you over. She says, the front door is open. I’m in my bed. Come, now.

Sex is penetration. But it is not just about the kind of penetration that cocks and cunts perform.

And sometimes, orgasms happen in the head, not in the groin. In the stomach.

Sometimes, orgasms are the intensities that you take with you and remember hours and days later, when you are alone again, crawling with sexuality and her scent still all over your body because you did not shower after your hot, sticky morning.

+

Human sexuality, clearly, is nothing new. However, it is interesting that the word “sex” is.

Sex, as meaning “sexual intercourse” in the English lexicon was first seen in 1929, in the writings of D.H. Lawrence.

Alternately, sex was found in the following phrases, in the following years:

“Sexually attractive”, 1932.

“Sex appeal”, 1924.

“Sex drive”, 1918.

“Sex object”, 1911, in a reference to Jesus Christ of Nazareth (source, www.etymonline.com).

+

Sex is intercourse.

From the Latin, intercursus, intercourse means, “a running between”.

From Modern French, entrecours, intercourse means, “ a communication, to and fro”.

Intercourse, meaning “sexual relations”, was first recorded in English, in 1798.

This predates the English word that we typically use to indicate intercourse – “sex” – by 133 years.

+

Sex is feeling more than knowing when she wants to crawl out of her panties and expose her heat to you; when she wants you in her mouth; when she opens her legs to invite your fingers inside…

Sex is about dynamics. It’s about a long, protracted ascent. But it’s also about the decent and the rest in the valley. Kisses on the shoulder. The kneading of muscles. The building of more urge and energy to ascend, again – this time, a different peak.

Sometimes sex is about words. It’s about direction. It’s about, this way. Right there. Don’t stop what you’re doing. Or, no, that way…

…I’m coming…

Sex is me inside of her mouth, and flickering around her tongue. Sex is the sensations that rush through me like a meltdown. A flood. An electrical charge.

Sex is escape from the bright day outside. Sex is the birds and the new bees of this new spring season. Sex is and isn’t about that world so far removed from our bodies, and this darkened room right now.

And amazing sex is when you are breathless, sweating from the heart outward and standing so close to orgasm for so many minutes at a time that you continually are wondering why your legs haven’t given out yet.

Amazing sex is this 10 a.m. lover, hidden behind heavy drapes in a tall four-post bed. Amazing sex is this lover disguised as a pack of wolves, devouring you as sharply as you are devouring her in this, the hottest of two-way roads.

+

Sex is not simple. It’s not concrete.

And this is exactly where sex intersects with everything thrilling.

Sex is contingent. Sex is about a moment. Sex is fluid. Sex is about movement and sensation. It’s about ultimate human emotion. And yes,

Sex is about: communication. It’s about two people sharing more than words. This is the body as a sentence. Arms and legs as exclamations, and dimples and nerve endings as periods of titillating confirmations, being traced by fingers longing for more.

Sex is about feeling-out a situation and then sticking your tongue into it, when the moment begs to be, whet, or just, wet.

In all of this, sex is about learning. It’s the same aptitude that is involved in creating and the sustaining a dialogue, or verbal conversation.

Sex is about learning how she gyrates her hips and how I fit within that motion. Sex is knowing that wants me to open her ass while I am inside of slick, wetness. Sex is about those sounds which scream to you “yes” in a whisper, and without word.

Here, life is fluid. Sex is fluid. It is about movement and going along with the tides of life. It is not about a cross-grained evaluation. Or something that is diagrammed-out.

+

Sex is:

In that dark room, while the birds are chirping outside, flying through the airstreams of life and the teeming systems of spring coming.

Sex is not a simple equation of: Flirting, then foreplay, then penetration, then orgasm. It’s not always about a bed and positions.

Like eroticism, sex is penetration (conversation).

Like eroticism, sex is intercourse (communication).

Sex is an aptitude. And more than that:

Sex is a moment. And capitalizing on what that moment has presented you.

Sex may only be a couple minutes of penetration with your cock. Sex may be a dizzying make-out session. When you come that close to someone else, sex is not a line – it’s a feeling.

+

Sometimes there is a fear – that if you cannot pound her for hours then you are not a man. And if she cannot get wet, then she is not a sexual, child-bearing woman.

Sometimes there is a fear for her, that she shakes too much. That she moans in strange ways. Screams in others.

Amazing sex does not stand here, in magazine descriptions. In anatomical manuals.

Heart-pounding sex is about fingers and pads of palms and tongues just as much as it is about a cock and a cunt. And orgasms come from the mind, if they don’t entirely reside there. To be mind-fucked as hard as you are penetrated otherwise is one of the most intense sensations that a human can comprehend.

+

Sex is standing in front of the questions and feeling the wind try and blow you back. Sex is the quivering and quaking that you feel when you stand in front of the colossal questions of existence.

This is why your legs tremble. This is why your heart pounds.

+

And while the life outside, in the green sun-soaked day, rolls by; and while the televisions flicker with their own pornography – we are inside. We are coming, together and apart.

Without words we somehow understand one another.

…and then the erotica writers try to grasp and reach and claw for some subtle description that will impossibly encapsulate one of those shared moments…

+

Then again, maybe sex is only what I know it to be. Feel it to be. Want it to be.

Maybe sex is different for you.

Hopefully, it is.

Yes

The word “yes” turns me on.

For many years, just saying the word “erotic” was, well… erotic.

But I have come to find that a good “yes” is always what I need. To the converse, the word “no” will drain the blood from my hot parts.

A close fourth or fifth in this line of words that turns me on is: adventure.

+

It was still sunny outside. But she said “yes” anyway. The whole while long driving towards her and I assumed that she would call and back-out. But she didn’t.

When I arrived she was dressed for a play. An opera. Her lipstick, still wet.

When she got in the car, she said that she thought she was overdressed. Because, where were we going, again? Yes… so, you’re really going to pop my sex club cherry, right?

The windows were down, the world around was hollering and spring was on its fruitful way. I nodded, smiled and said yes to her, all over the clear blue water I am going to pop your cherry.

She said that she didn’t think her clothes would be staying on very long.

Spring was coming. And soon, so would I. I said yes, your clothes won’t be on for very long at all.

+

The sex club was empty. And for this, I was grateful. Afterall, the girl was in my care and I didn’t want anything obtuse. More than that, I wasn’t interested in playing with anything other than the girl with tattoos all over her body and pierced-absolutely-everything.

When we climbed into the hot tub, we sat side-by-side. Under the rippling water we checked-out each other’s wavy bodies.

Our thighs touched. I reached down and began stroking at my cock, feeling her eyes bouncing down and then straight ahead, shyly. It this moment that is delicate, the wave of nerves before the storm – the only time in any relationship where you are completely uncertain as what to expect – because you have never touched before.

This is the longing to know. This is the moment of unknowing.

Thing is, I think that we were going to skip the whole sweet first kiss thing…

I inhaled the fumes of water and lust and then… I reached-out and touched her thigh. I looked into her pivoting eye. And then her manicured hand dipped under the water for her pierced clit.

+

I rolled out in front of her, my cock waving in the water between us. She took a hold and we stared into the other’s eyes, intoxicated and drenched with the anticipation of sensation. Of sex. Of supreme lust made manifest. Of the adventure party leaving base camp.

Slowly I crawled up toward her chest, her face.

She slid me in and out of her mouth. Slowly at first she took me, as though she were trying to decide whether she liked the taste of my dish. I reached down and twirled her nipple piercings in my fingers.

Then she took me entirely inside of her with an animalistic fervor. She attacked me as though it had been so long since the last time and all the weeks and months of thinking about it were too much…

And then the words began, in form of questions:

You like that cock?

Yes…

You like being a dirty little girl, don’t you?

Yes…

Her eyes lit up and over the tip of my cock she said that she wanted more words. More questions. Because yes, she wanted to feel as dirty as she could in this blue, blue water. And only words could topple her sexual being, over…

I pushed her up onto the edge of the tub and buried my face cautiously between her legs for my first taste.

Yes. Yes. She moaned.

+

The hot water was the beginning of our affirmation. With an open stretch of blue, cold water in front of us, we left the boil of the tub for a space where we could move; glide together. In the pool.

We had gone on one date prior. We talked about our lives and shared our very personal histories. When we left our glasses of wine, no food was eaten. I did not know about her appetite. I did not know what she could handle, or more than that, what she wanted to handle.

But with her legs wrapped around me in that pool, I learned that she had a feverous appetite. An unending thirst. A passion for sexuality. We talked about it in words and thrusts into one another. We talked about it with our eyes. And for awhile we floated around the pool, touching cock, touching cunt.

She asked me how I wanted her. As I began to slide inside of her I said that I wanted to pop her cherry all over this clear, blue pool. And as our heat slid together, she sighed and said that she didn’t think I would actually pop her sex club cherry.

+

We pirouetted through the shallow ends of the pool, the water sloshing up and onto our naked chins. Unabashedly, we moved from side to side, where I pinned her against the wall and pushed her legs up and over my shoulders.

With everything I had, I laid into her. Our breath beating like hearts. Our breath punctuated by large and small exclamations: yes. Yes.

In our dance away from the wall, I stayed inside her the whole time. I reached down and twirled her clit piercing between my slick fingers. Effortlessly, we supported each other’s weight and more than bouncing with the waves of the water, we created those soft, rolling waves throughout the pool and more than that, through our entire bodies.

Gripping her, I slid my fingers down to massage her ass. She sighed, yes. I love that. I opened her even wider…

As I slid in and out of her I told her that it would be hot if there was another cock in front of her. You would like that, you naughty girl, wouldn’t you? She sighed, yes. Or, if we pushed you up against the edge of the pool to an open pair of legs. You want to suck on another girl’s wet cunt, wouldn’t you? She sighed longingly, yes…

And as I opened her up underneath, she said that she went through a phase where she only wanted it in the ass. To that we both sighed and sang with the water lapping up and onto us both.

+

I laid her on the bed. That’s when people began trickling into the wet pool area.

Taking her nipple piercings into my mouth I slid inside of her and pinned her legs up to my ears. She said that was her favorite. I reached down, cupping my cock and her wet cunt, then slid down to her ass. She said, yes, and that too…

One couple came onto the bed and she and I twirled around our common center, shifting positions and sensations. The man next to us went down on his girl. We watched us in the mirror. We watched them in the mirror.

With her legs up and over my shoulders I laid into her. Without the resistance of the water I pounded down and onto her, with our bodies now dry save for she. She was now dripping…

Then I asked her how she wanted me to cum. She said, yes, I like that. Anywhere. On my tits. On my ass. Anywhere. But mostly, on my face.

Then, after two hours of standing near my summit of climax, I pulled out of her and crawled up her torso. In a few short strokes I exploded with weeks of suppression. When I concluded my tremble, she looked up at me, grinned and said that she believed that was an award-winning orgasm. Yes, she said, that was amazing…

+

Once back out and into the day, away from our sensory overloaded play time and we both lit a cigarette. And in less than fifteen minutes I had dropped her off at home, and our adventure was over.

As I drove away from her, I was still charged with another orgasm. I was ready for more. But I knew that the importance was not in the duration of our adventure. The purpose and importance was in the fact that it happened at all.

For this and more, I love yes. I love adventures.

Enchanted

She said, “me encantas”. Translated, this means, “you enchant me”.

I’m not sure what turns me on more: love or lust.

I love lust. But I also lust love.

And when a girl that says I enchant her, the heat that rises from my core is a whirling dervish of the most intoxicating emotions: love and lust.  Couple that with who this girl is, and the fact that she sings like a haunted angel on stage; and for many hours now I have paralyzed myself by immersion. Of swimming in the thoughts of her: her black dresses, her dark eyes, her piercing words, her sense of song, seduction and the way that she flirts with me.

+

There is an art to flirting.

While I am not the most adept in this art, I am a connoisseur of this aptitude. I know the vehicles for flirting: touch and sight being the two most dominant. However it is words that tickle and torture my soul.

“Me encantas” is like water in that it swirls over into the realm of seduction.

Because when I picture the girl saying the words, “me encantas”, I picture her in Peru, overlooking the sea. She is, afterall, one of the ten things I know about Peru. About the great poet, Pablo Neruda.

+

In the same vein of the question of: is life a dream? I do not know if I am an idea or a person.

So when this dark soulstress tells me, “te quiero”, I am not sure if it’s me that she wants – or the idea of the power behind her words. Behind my words. Behind who I am and who she is – behind her piano, or not.

I am not sure if she is flirting with me, or seducing me.  In one, you do not reach a linguistic end.  You do not become, “flirted”.  But you do become “seduced”.

On my empty pillow at the end of the night, for a near eternity now and I have been unendingly enchanted by this dark girl. Since we first met under the stars on a dark night.  She has twisted my hunger for love as much as she touched my thirst to be lustful for her.

Maybe the mystery is the inquiry.  Maybe it’s end of all of this.  Maybe it’s the unknown. Like her black dresses that sail behind her. Or the way that her hair hides her blackened eyes. Or the way her breathy words haunt me as though I want her more than I can understand.

If even confused: Consider me seduced. Enchanted. Wanted.

Blessed.

Words as Eroticism

I touch myself and then I touch her, in the dark.

I have no idea what I am feeling when I reach out to her. Because if I am feeling anything, it is not her. At best, I am one of the blind men holding onto different parts of the philosophical elephant.

Without hands or lips or anything wet, this is the sexiest thing I can think of doing: Touching her only with words and letters. Not with flesh and body. And my throbbing sex. My lips.

She does not know this, when I write her: That I touch myself. And I’ve never said it out loud: that I am touching her. I can only guess and assess from what I’ve felt with my eyes closed, that I am.

In our correspondence there hasn’t been one thing that was sexy – everything about it is sexy. This is the cleanest dirtiness I have known. In all of our words, shared in-person and in letters there has not been one audible: fuck. There has been no mention of naked bodies, even though they are between us. And only now am I finding the bravery to tell her that I want to devour her. But: shhh, don’t say this too loud. Secrets can disappear.

And this is as secretively erotic as I can conjure. Do conjure. Because as long as my arms are, they are not long enough to wrap themselves around her.

I am weak and hungry with anticipation. Aching with eroticism when she courses through me.

She is danger. She is safety. For as much as I want to give: I cannot. Her heart belongs to another. In this I am letting myself go. Because I am safe. Because there is an elevated wall between us that I cannot crawl under. Will not crawl under. Here, nobody can wrench what cannot be given.

However much I may crave when I am with her or apart, my reach and touch will ever only be as long as:

The adjectives and verbs that is my only tongue and soft pads of lips and palms and fingers. The nouns that are the throbbing and fiery sex rocketing from my pores. And the punctuation that is all the orgasms we’ve never shared. Shared, together.

More Than Lust

Lust is emotion.

Lust is craving. It is a movement forward. A striving-towards.

You can crave so many emotions that will touch the spaces where the world leaves you hollow – but lust fills these multiple spaces by force.

Lust is longing. Lust is wanting.

Lust is about intensity and the fire of existence.

Lust is power, in-action. It is a river pounding toward the sea. You, coming to get me.

When I close my eyes, I see red with lust. But in this blackened bedroom, with only a blue light warming the ocean room, the sparks of technicolor imbue the hunger of our three naked bodies climbing on top of each other in primal starvation.

The only way I can see lust as a sin is for one to never strive toward conquering the objects of their aim, of their lust. Even if those objects are invisible.

+

The two girls were giggling and prodding one another about who should be the first to reveal skin. Piled onto the bed and with limbs touching for the first time and our aim was clear. The path, the river, however, was not.

This is where the reds and blues pulsed through my body to meet a purple hue. Sometimes yellow.

I told the girls, I am not shy, I have liquor in my belly. I reached down for my buckle and unlatched it. The metal was the perfunctory call and both of the girls’ eyes fell to my midsection. For a moment even our collective breath ceased.

I paused once my belt was undone, and my zipper down.

The girls’ eyes were like cameras; watching me. Intently.

When I pulled my pants below my knees and kicked them off the bed, the girls’ eyes batted – away and then back. I was already hard. Throbbing, before their thirsty gaze.

Once naked and the giggling stopped.

+

I like the creation of situations. I like the act of:

Anticipation.

Movement.

Process.

Escalation.

Boiling-over…

As we talked over drinks earlier in the night, I wasn’t certain that our night would end the way that it did.

But they called me to this place and I arrived, to indulge in the forces of nature. To engage. To facilitate the water’s ebb. No, I wasn’t going to let something like this pass me by. The message I received was: Good news. Call me now. I have a girl friend that wants us both.

+

The two girls wanted each other. But they wanted eachother in the way that they would somehow feel safer with a mediator: A boy. And as I would learn, their want, their gravitational lust wasn’t so much in their words as it was in their quiet actions. Their loud breath.  Their heavy limbs toward one another like magnets.

Once I was naked and only inches from both of their grasp, they took turns playfully disrobing. The instigator of all this was second; she took off her top and unbuckled her pants. Let them fall to the floor as we watched. She was uninhibited standing there in her black boy shorts and bra. She licked her lips deviously and with praise of the unfolding of the bodies…

The younger girl was apprehensive. Laughter and smiles hid her nerves.

But when the younger one peeled her top off, the instigator and I applauded her pert chest. Her sleek, soft, youthful body.

Slowly she pulled down her pants. Blue panties hid what I wanted to see so heavily.

+

I pulled the instigator onto the bed as the young one went into the bathroom. The rush of pulsating intoxication filled me from limb to limb. We met lips as I laid her down. Naked, my ass was in the air and I was on my haunches, ready to pounce.

Slowly, I pressed myself into her warm body. Her hard nipples. I flicked one with my hot, soft tongue.

I heard the young one come from the bathroom. In the blue darkness, she slid-up next to us, kissing the instigator on the lips.

I have never done this, the young one said beneath a nervous giggle.

The instigator pulled her closer. Said, just let it happen…

I slid down between the instigator’s revolving hips. I kissed her clean mound and then lip-bit her thighs before I circled her clit with my fevered tongue. The young one went down to her nipples, sucking and nibbling away as though this wasn’t her first time to feel this kind of hunger. Her pulsing breath resonated with this devouring.

After several long and wet seconds sucking on her and I reached up for the young ass that was writing next to the instigator’s open legs. When I reached up and into her wetness, I expected to find the blue fabric. Instead, my fingers melted into her fire. She was already slick and without much effort my fingers slipped inside of her.

Leaving the instigator’s wet cunt, I opened-up the young girl’s legs and buried my head between. She moaned and immediately rocked her hips.

Together, we were writhing in an unchoreographed dance of lust and hunger and desert thirst.

+

The young girl’s ass was in the black-and-blue air. With my head still buried between her legs, she was squirming and twisting and squealing. On the table before her were the wine glasses. The bottles.

I had one hand on the instigator’s clit and the other as my balancing rod. My cock was throbbing blue, out and in front of us all.

The instigator took me in her hand and stroked me as she breathed something inaudible. And in less than two minutes, the young, blue girl would be doubled-over, nearly all the way over the footboard, writhing in agony’s ecstasy.

+

I am hungry for music. As hungry as I am for naked bodies dancing together.

In French, Bon Iver means, “good winter”.

One of the saddest albums I have ever heard, but around every corner laced with redemption, Bon Iver was the perfect soundtrack for our languid and then alternately, feverous dance of sexuality.

The album is haunting. Sexy. It’s black and blue and, it’s organic – like the winter’s wood that needs to be chopped. Acoustic guitars and falsetto trills lead the way. The work is titled, “For Emma, Forever Ago”.

And as the melodies sank and swam in the heartache of supreme disappointment and sadness and melancholy’s bounding joy, I could only think:

For us.

For now.

For ever.

+

The instigator excused herself for the bathroom when I turned the young girl around to me. She said I am nervous and so I leaned to kiss her gently – but she took my entire mouth into hers with a hunger that electrified me. Our hot, wet mouths swam together. I could smell damp sex on her fiery breath.

My hips bucked toward her and I pulled her beneath me. Gently, I slipped inside of her with my cock as a sword.

Slowly, I slid completely inside. Then back out. She wriggled and writhed with orgasm on the mount. Even after my initial moves in and out of her, she continued to tremble in that way one does after an intense coming. As though this was the first time she had ever been touched.

Feeling her fire, I kissed her again and then went for her neck.

When the instigator came from the bathroom, she stood before us. Above us. She said, wow. She just wanted to watch. She said, hot.

Balanced atop the young girl with her ecstasy eyes and swollen lips, I pumped my cock in and out of her. All the while knowing that my ass was up and in the air and,

We were being watched. Devoured with eyes.

Eaten by lust’s fiery surge downhill into gravity’s melt.

+

I have the young girl’s legs open and my cock is working in and out of her. I am pulsing with rejuvenated energy and at the height of my sensuality and feeling.

The instigator is sitting on the young girl’s face, at her urging. I am kissing the instigator and pinning the young girl’s legs up against the instigator’s shoulders. I reach down and open the instigator’s cunt and legs. I want all of us to break into open. To burst at the seams.

I can hear the young girl moaning, half in pain, half in ecstasy. The instigator asks if she is okay. You sound like you are in pain, baby…

No, the young girl responds. I love you. I completely love you. In intoxication the instigator looks back at me with her slick eyes and opens her mouth. I reach inside with my tongue.

+

I want you so bad, the young girl begs more than speaks.

I have the instigator on her stomach and I am sliding inside and out of her backside. The young girl lays on the bed, close to the instigators face. She says, I love you.

And then,

The young girl starts crying. Not sobbing. Crying.

For a half second, I am concerned. Then, I am as turned-on as I have ever been in my entire life. At first, the instigator consoles the young girl. But then the young girl responds by saying that this is absolutely beautiful – seeing her friend getting fucked like this.

Their faces are hot with heat and proximity.

I am fucking the instigator slowly, but deep and hard – squeezing everything out of me at this point where we are meeting.

The two girls kiss. Long embrace.

And I watch the writhing and heaving of this sea of waves; of curves and lines. Everything is now blue. Our sweaty skin glistening in the blue light. Now white light.

I have never been present to see two human beings want each other so much and so ferociously – with all the fear of empty space and darkened seas between them.

+

The young girl wipes the tears from her darkened eyes just before she leans with her gyrating hips. She saddles her leg up and over the instigators ass, while I am still inside her. I pull out and slide sideways into the young, blue girl.

Once inside her, we eloquently balance our weight. I hear her say, his cock is inside of me. She moans loudly with red pleasure. I ask her in my dirtiest voice, if she likes me inside of her. She replies by fucking me back, hard. She presses all of her weight into me and the absolute intoxication of the poles in the emotions of our hours together builds and rides upward in me until, alas, I cannot control it any longer…

In wet emotion I release everything I came to this encounter with as the boy between two beautiful girls. And it is with these same unspoken emotions that we close the night under the skies of a new spring and cigarette smoke and hugs and the uncertainty of joy and the contentment of one’s hands striving toward something larger, and satiated.