The return of the…

He comes every so often
Maybe it’s lunar cycles
Or leap years or times of self manufactured crises

He comes

With eyes that light
A smile that beckons and teases
Hands that play my body and sometimes leave marks I must inspect for days
Lips that part and press and make way for a tongue that perfectly dances with mine and spins me down and down into total and complete infatuated oblivion
A scent that is totally and completely unique and everywhere
A tone of voice that is essence of man
Skin that is hewn and experienced and touched by the world
Body that is his age but cared for and solid
Body parts that are built to please

I am made of liquid
Bubbling and boiling and spilling out all over pages and in whispers to myself and sighs and goosebumps and suddenly erect nipples and aching from the inside out

Because the knowledge is true
He is what I imagined
He gives me something
He is so memorable
He makes me laugh and disarms
And then plunges me into the deepest most luxurious lust I can know
I am inspired
So completely inspired

I need to have more to say
So I need to have him more in my arms and between my legs
I hear pianos and saxophones and sexy bass lines and I see sunsets with red and orange skies and our voices above it all nearly howling with desire
I am inspired
I am on fire

He comes every so often

And the hundreds of words follow
with me running behind

In a pinch

Smokey fingers clawing at my scalp
Bruises and hickies and smells of handmade soap and nicotine
somehow so fucking erotic and perfect
Salt and pepper and pent up anger and maybe the early beginnings of COPD or emphysema
But Buddhism
and love of Mother Earth
and a cock that could rock my very core
If only he wasn’t so
wait and see
but fear the worst
and it’s soul crushingly disappointing when features you love are packed inside a container of who-the-fuck-knows-what kind of dysfunction
That’s what the spur of the heat of the moment gets you
Stellar kisses and rough play and laughter and uncertainty and expectations of orgasms that somehow apparently flow like water from most other females
But a year and a half without sex

Meanwhile nearby co-inhabitants who nearly tore eachother apart are back in each others clutches once again
Oh to be stupid and young and filled to the brim with mistakes and not care who witnesses the breaking and destruction

A thoroughly bred notion

Not the first
But immediately primary on sight
The eyes. Its always the fucking eyes.
Bore in and steal the powers of perception
This might be how the Devil possesses
Thoughts become molten, vibrating pulses
Boundaries become collapsed cardboard
Skin on fire with need
Skin on fire and the burning is so familiar and sickening

The connection never realized
So the energy should dissipate
But the lava still flows and consumes the earth of rationality
It needs to burn
It needs to burn
And if course there are virtual trails to follow because energy like this wants to be found
So the reaction continues on
Into the subconscious
Bringing a kiss that seemed as real and wet and hot as it should have been

Chase this invisible horseman
This avatar of all you desire
Into the night of futility
The unknowing recipient of all the aching
Submit to the possibility that the mere pursuit is what causes this reaction
That what is imagined is far more satisfying in its unavailability

Ready to run and run with your muscles gleaming and taut
Sweat and pant and stomp the ground
The whip is the words and the smiles and the aging lines on the face that tease and the husky tone of the call of the rider that you can’t even hear now
The bit and the danger of career-ending injury are maybe the only things keeping you from exploding on to the field of degradation and total shame

God help you if the bell rings

Not so plump but definitely asking for it

“My love making is my legacy.” Lana Del Rey

Read that in a social media post by Courtney Love, who once sang “I am not a feminist”
and then screamed “FUCK YOU!”

Ten years of my life or more ring true to Ms Del Rey’s sentiment

Likely more

There are men still in my life probably because of it
Not because I was some
kindred spirit

Being a mother is an achievement, but how do you define success there?
You don’t know until they’re grown and thriving and you can’t take credit for all of it
so you don’t get to self venerate

Work is work for me, not a career path
No big gains there
No writing awards
No performing awards
No big paychecks


But the fucking

I’d say I was a thoroughbred
I had the hips for it
No legend
But I could contend

What do you do with that kind of experience and conditioning?

Write a weirdly spaced ode about it in a blog where no one but bots pays attention


There is always a honeymoon phase
I’m in it with him
And then I’m out of course

But then I’m innnnnn
And he’s there goading me on
Teasing me
Taunting me
in pursuit

And he’s just out of reach always

And it works
It works
It works
I want him
I want him
I want him

Does he know?

We don’t speak for weeks and I’m so hurt but he’s there and I find myself lost in a thought and there’s the little message that means nothing but that he is there

Almost like he knows
Almost like he can feel me and he doesn’t know
So much “Almost”

And I vibrate in anticipation

I know we will not touch again until death has shifted its gaze away
But I’ll wait
In pain and impatience
For the light he brings with his bright eyes and endearing smile

I want to touch him and please him
Because we are water signs
Because I can’t look away
Despite my perceived anguish
My suffering vows renewed by some strange moment of yes
And it’s honeymoon all over again