Fear. The censor. Always a voice saying, Don’t let go; that sends me to a farther room, to watch; intimacy sacrificed, passion strangled and forbidden. The weight of control exhausts me. I would relinquish it-if I knew how. I am confounded by the need to create a civilized pleasure, paralyzed; hungry for the free-fall of unbound appetite, but caught up by a strange and powerful terror: If I give myself that completely, will I disappear?
You held me against you in the garage, your cock sraining toward me, hard and insistent beneath the fabric of your trousers.
“Does that bother you?” you asked.
Such a strange word… bother. I was so ready for you then. I can’t remember ever wanting anyone as much. I was melting, hungry to be consumed.
When I brought you home with me then, how strange it was to find conflict instead of synchronicity. Perhaps neither one of us was what we seemed or the other expected. Confined by the paterns of our old rituals, we were forced to retreat.
Now alone, I am caught up in the images of making love to you. I remember, not the truth, but the promise of desire…
I feel you moving against me. Your tongue and fingers rend passion from my nerve-shocked flesh, while your voice invokes the carnal gods, long sleeping. Your mouth, relentless, searches the moist, swelling folds, now oiled and pearly with pungent foam. The fingers of your hand spread the lips of my sex like the feathers of an exotic fan, then disappear inside me, while the other kneads and worries the milk-white curve of my backside. Trapped between your lips and tongue, the small fist of nerves flexes and stretches toward the growing pressure you exert. Soft whispers, nearly cries, mark the cadence of your advances. My fingers tangle in the velvet fur of your hair, pulling your head closer still…Locked in the trappings of his throne, the censor perishes; ignited in a pyre of bliss and ecstasy.
In the picture, you have pulled me on top of you now. Your hands are traveling, gather flesh and momentum. Your face, contorted and straining, is not your face, and yet is more your face than I have ever known it. Your body, small and hard-made, arches beneath me in a hot, flexing rhythm, while I, wet and molten, ache to impale myself upon your power, take it up, swallow it whole. My head, my lips, drop to your chest, sucking briefly, then nipping the twin kernels of dark flesh there. All at once, with a quick, sweet stab, you are inside me.
Your hands guide my body like a fitful tide, pulling and releasing the flowing exchange. I am dancing at the eye of a hurricane, but I have no bones, no muscle, no choreography, save that which you teach me. Electricity moves between us, from point to point, touching off concentric rings of light, magnetism and sense. My inner walls grip you tightly, as your shaft withdraws, then returns to the embrace. A vapor of sea foam and lightning hangs redolent in the air, as a deep thrum rises in a deafening roar of blood and fever in my ears.
The memory of your voice enflames me. The relentless narrative of :Fuck and feel, oh, how you taste, give it to me, tell me what it’s like when I’m inside you, oh, oh, yes like that, so wet, so wet, suck harder, use your hands…” Your wrods like so many tongues, lick and shape me, fill me with sensation until I’m nearly senseless, touching off a deep inner vibration that cannot be stopped. I hear my own lost voice break through, crying, speaking, swearing, wailing with the passion so long denied. “More, yes, more…you feel so good, wait, don’t wait, yes, God, yes fuck me, so good, you feel so good, I want…yes…inside me now, now, now, please…now,” until the words are lost in a spiraling call of pure animal joy, and I succumb to the night-dark wave, drowned by satisfaction, waiting to be reborn.
After a beat, returned to sense, I feel you moving inside me, churning wildly, hurtling toward your own release. Racing mindless and infinite, shattering the gates of Heaven as you chase your pleasure home, overstepping that precipice, until you fall, headlong into ecstsy.
This is what I think: If the Genius of the Cosmos is laughing at us now, so be it. We were made to be in each other’s arms. There is no denying or unmaking it, no matter that we choose to walk another road.
Copy Right, Desolation – 2003
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