Of Revolutions

This is an ode.

And she is worthy of every utterance:

She talks to me with her whole body. Her hands are like eyes, washing over every corner of my being. Inspecting me. Talking to me. Without words, her mouth listens to me breathe. She crawls up me with her tongue and feels me with the palms of her lips and we laugh in a language I haven’t ever heard before, but am mysteriously able to speak.

She is my kind of girl: She wears dresses and has feminine hands. She is shaved clean. Blonde with streaks. Tan. Smells like mangoes and melons and her hair frames the mascara that encircles her Monet eyes.

But more than exhibiting the perfect display of femininity, she is my sexual match.


She is unafraid of her body. And she makes me unafraid of mine.

In this, she is the most wonderfully complicated sexual being I have ever known. But in this she is not intimidation. She is not superior. In this, she is whole. And vibrant. For this, I kiss her strongly and take her into my arms as many times as I can.

We spend entire evenings that spill into the half light of the morning, dancing.

And while I would never profess to being a good dancer, never before have I danced so gracefully. Never before have I been able to exhibit my full body of sexual aptitude in the face of a reverent eye. And what’s more, we do all of this underwater. Giving and taking and reciprocating and moving with one another as though we born to do this and nothing more. Nothing less.

Sometimes when I’m inside of her, trying to prolong our tango, I think of Fred Astaire. And I think of how we must look together, dancing on this pier of enchantment. In the sepia days of our ancestry. With the whole experience of humanity behind us as our lesson – for right now. This moment. This second.

We sit on her couch and talk. She is funny and smiles wide with her big eyes. She likes reggae in a way that I have never known and I am only now beginning to understand this music. When she bites her lips during the choruses of sound, I smile back thinking that my new comprehension is probably on account of the way she spreads her legs and lets the candle light wash over her thighs. Illuminating her wet, white-hot sex.


I wasn’t looking for her and she wasn’t looking for me. But now it’s beginning to feel like we found each other in this grand labyrinth. It just may be that, for a reason the universe found us, in our human walk down and around the blind corners of Halloween frights and misty hazes of middle of nowhere corn mazes.

When we first met I was wondering about love at first sight. Or really, mostly lust. The way that sex drips from her is instantaneously intoxicating. And trying to remember our conversations that first night we met in the bar, is murky at best. What I do remember is going to the bathroom and then returning, to find that she and her purse – were gone.

I had ordered two drinks before going to the bathroom and picked them up from the bar after I discovered that she was gone. The bartender looked at me as though she knew – as though she was apologizing with her eyes. As though she was saying, better luck next time little boy. Still, I took the drinks and went to where I was sitting with her and downed most of my drink. Because I didn’t know what else to do. I looked out the windows to try and spot a car speeding away into the night.

The whole while, I could only think of the way she was looking at me. I wondered if she looks at everyone that way. And I wondered why I didn’t have anything that she wanted. I was buzzing with rejection and trying not to take it personally, then…

Then I turned around and there she was. She hadn’t left. I hadn’t scared her off. She was in the bathroom.

I turned around and there she was. There she is.


I am a predator for her sex.

We cannot keep our hands off each other. And when I leave her in the morning I can only think about the next time I can have more.

We fuck, have sex, kiss and cuddle and can not stop swimming through this sexual of sea of ecstasy. Even when I am inside of her I stop, so I can go down and suck on her wetness. Even when I am inside of her she stops, so she can take my cock into her mouth and moan and drive me absolutely fucking mad.

We are foreplay and sex and post coitus all rolled into one fiery ball for hours upon night hours.

We are in the kitchen and her perfect body is radiating with the previous couple of hours of being devoured. She is naked and so am I: Unafraid and without torture in our nudity. I pin her against the counter and kiss her on her slippery, watery lips before I slide down to taste and suck on every lobe and curve and nipple and line. Down on my knees I slip my tongue inside her hot folds and begin, more than lapping at her, devouring her.

She is food. She is sustenance. She is vitamins and minerals and health and my daily meal. And when I cannot have her, I go hungry. Prowling in a world where everything else is insufficient.

With my whole mouth wrapped around her cunt, her hips begin bucking. She leans back into the counter and wraps her legs around me. The backs of her knees on my shoulders. I am sucking and licking and tickling and fucking her with every wet molecule in my body. And still, I only want more.

Sitting on my face, with her hips writhing and then we begin our ascent upward. I reach under and lifting her from the ass, I stand up – my face buried deep inside her. My tongue fucking the space that my cock had been previously.

Then, she picks herself completely up and off the counter and begins dancing. Her hips circling my soft, wet landing strip of a mouth. Her entire being undulating to and from my face fucking her. Devouring her.

In this I take her whole. And I tell her, with my whole body, that she has never been wanted more in her whole life.

And when we are done, I forget where I am in this world of bills and lights and cars and train wrecks. I am somehow, miraculously, cut-off from the world beyond her and I. My head is not light. My whole body is. My knees are weak, my body spent and I am staring out the window wondering what is happening.

I turn around and there she is.



And then she leads me back into the dark bedroom of slick polyester sheets wrinkled with our unending sex.


Her eyes roll back into her head when I am fucking her. This is when I know that this is not about love, or even lust. This is about primal incantations that we are all blessed with – and this is the place of ecstasy that she is unafraid of going toward; and being immersed within. When I see the whites of her eyes I know that I am fucking the most gorgeous and sexual being that I ever have.

She makes me want to go further.

And despite my ache for her, my cock can only go for so long.

It is here where I first felt her supreme brilliance. She is aware. She is kind and she tells me with her whole body that I am wanted more than I ever could be. She kisses me with not only her hands and mouth and eyes – but with her whole body. With her thighs and ass and ankles and all the small bits in-between.

She traces the outline of my flaccid cock. She tickles my thighs. She breathes heavily into my ear with a wind of flutes and song. This is the music of an interlude. And then when I see her hips bucking again in her unquenchable thirst, I look into her artful eyes and see everything I need to. And the blood returns to my body in the places that have opened-up only to her.

And then, in our elegant dance, we somehow flop around and I am sucking on her still wet cunt and she has my soft cock in her mouth, now hard. She is biting my thighs and tickling my balls and absolutely devouring my cock. And I have her entire cunt either in my mouth or all over my face and I do not know how to crawl through her. But I am probing for a hole large enough to fit both of our beings into.

And the whole while I am trying to find new breathing holes because I am paralyzed with this intensity and I can only conclude that there must be some way to find air in and through my ears.


After a nearly complete night of live music and drinks, we go to the sultry Sugar House after midnight and drink chocolate liqour from strawberries and then we sit on a couch with her girlfriend with the perfect tits. My Italian girl is wearing a skirt and her girlfriend begins sucking on her mouth and reaching into her dress for her even more perfect tits.

In five short minutes we will become an illuminated display of sexuality. And everybody will stop what they are doing to come. And watch us.

My Italian girl spreads her legs and her tits are pulled from her shirt. Her eyes are rolling back in her head in the same wave that her body is undulating within. She has her friend’s tits out and is sucking on her as I open her legs even more – to dive in for my first anxiously-awaited taste.

All night long we have been teasing and touching and kissing and fingering her under the table. And she has reached-out and into the night to stroke my cock and I cannot think clearly anymore…

And now, under the red lights and on that red couch, we are an illuminated display of sexuality. I peek up from between her writhing legs and cunt and body and see men and women. Desirous. Hungry.

And I have a plateful right in front of me.


When we are smoking on the couch and taking a break, having water and catching our breath – we are also crawling over one another. Teasing one another with our eyes and fingers, tracing the wavy lines that candle light spills on our bodies.

We are almost giggling because for 4 hours now we have been crawling over one another. It was the same as last night. And it is the same as tomorrow night. But we do not giggle. It is something more than that. Something that says this may be bigger than we thought. This may be bigger than you, or even I.

I am a predator for her sex. And she is, for mine.

I cannot stop tasting her sex. Before or after or during or on Tuesday – I am trying to find that sacred space where I can crawl through her.

In the meantime I will just settle for fucking her and listening to her and watching her eyes roll back while I fall into some reverse kind of love that, like her music, I am only now beginning to comprehend.

~ by The Provocateur on September 6, 2007.

6 Responses to “Of Revolutions”

  1. I fall in love with every word you write.
    over and over again.

  2. Your writing leaves me, ahem, VERY thirsty!

  3. Thirsty. You leave me thirsty. For water. For air. For you.

  4. I do not have the words to compliment and when I do they always seem to be the same. Brilliant!

  5. Great stuff – I am at a loss of words. You are a very talented person.

  6. Yes, she and you both are worthy of odes.

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