I know we literally just hung up, but God, that was such a fantastic conversation. We certainly eye-fucked each other’s brains out. You’re so sexy. I can’t resist you. All I could think about was you kissing me, and licking me, and how badly I wanted your gorgeous cock inside of me. My pussy aches for you. I ache for you.
I can’t get enough of you. You consume my every thought, you invade
my obsidian dreams; your sex, your wit, your charm, your cock. I long
to be your adoring, model girlfriend, and your dirty little secret slut.
I want to be covered in you, to drink you; to be fully subsumed by you.
You know shit is getting real intense when poetry takes place of of my prose.
I’ve never experienced this level of desire with someone so
quickly, so far out of reach. This intensity is atomic. We may just rip a
hole in the time/space continuum when we fuck for real. But there’s no
one I’d rather destroy the fabric of reality with than you. ; )
I can’t wait to cum for you. I can’t wait to make you cum. You sexy, handsome, magnetic fucker.
And for what it’s worth, I think we’re just the right amount of fucked up for each other.
********
“And the reason why they were so compelling, besides those cute
haircuts and tight leather pants, was because they were sexy losers.”
I don’t see what’s so wrong with sexy loserdom. I find it terribly
hip, and incredibly sexually arousing. It’s in that devil-may-care
attitude, the shine of the switchblade, the roar of the motorbike, and
the smell of the leather that all the fun lies. Why that fell out of
favor for some flimsy illusion of maturity and puritanical morality, is
baffling. Meanwhile, the soul is asphyxiated by the putrid stench of
bullshit and sexual repression.
So many rules to follow, so many structures to adhere to, to be
good. To be popular. To be loved. Who fucking cares about being good?
Good is boring. Who fucking cares about being popular? Most people are a
joke. And most importantly, who cares about that kind of false love?
Love isn’t putting someone in a straightjacket and expecting them not to
go mad. Love isn’t convincing yourself it’s really not *that* bad.
Jesus. How abysmal. Fuck that.
Real love is freedom. Freedom from rules, freedom from judgment,
and freedom from lies. The lies we tell our partners and the lies we
have to tell ourselves. There’s something incredibly freeing about fully
embracing yourself, no matter how perverted, but it’s even more
stratospheric when lovers can embrace themselves within each other.
That’s the Holy Grail; riding the crest of the wave for as long as
fucking possible, on some far-out Universal plane, until it inevitably
slams you into the galactic surf.
********
Is there a more intoxicating love than the one laden with prurient
hunger, sensual thirst, and the bittersweet longing built right in: la
douleur exquise?
My body burns with desire. My mind races with smut. My soul
crackles with atomic electricity. The melancholic yearning; el duende,
it only intensifies the passion, like throwing Molotov cocktails into a
volcano. It only amplifies the bloodlust with the threat of destruction
and chaos.
It’s like Year One. The clock is being reset. We can start all over
if we want. Why should we settle for anything short of cosmological?
Why do we have to even dumb down our dreams. Without the hope of
something stratospheric, some suicide pact-sized tire fire; a connection
greater than the sum of its parts, what’s the point? I might as well
drive my car off a fucking bridge. If this is all there is.
Why am I so fucking stupid? Why do I care about this? About
anything? Why can’t I just be an apathetic nihilist? Instead of a
romantic, sentimental, bone-headed fool? Why does it all have to mean
soooo much. Why does losing control make me so fucking high.
Why must I take the idea of the challenge to such obnoxious
extremes? My relationships akin to walking a tightrope between two
skyscrapers. It all has to be so fatalistic. Why is that what excites me
so? Bonnie and Clyde without all the gunshot wounds. He said. Yes, in a
perfect, non-neurotic world. But without all those gunshot wounds,
does it really have the threat of tragedy necessary to make me
hot/cum/give a shit?
Not fucking likely. Addicts need to keep seeking out that bigger,
more intense high. Too much ain’t enough, for this junkie. Fuck it. I
need my heroin fix.
I realize I’d rather wade in memory than wallow in fantasy.
********
“Still waking up in the mornings with shaking hands / And I'm trying to find a girl who understands me / But except in dreams you're never really free...
Don't the trees look like crucified thieves/
Don't you feel like Desperados under the eaves”
Warren Zevon’s Desperados Under the Eaves plays as I was leave my
bedroom after our amazing morning together, in one of many poetic
moments. Your primal virility seared in vivid color in my mind;
gorgeous, granite cock in hand, jacking for me; your casual masculinity
inescapable. I am looking for a supplement, not a replacement. I have
my own obligations and commitments, that I’m not willing to cede. And I
fear I am more than any one man can handle; this hard-to-tame Appaloosa,
but I also know my limit. But because I we are of the same mind on
this, I am afforded the comfort needed to explore this from a place of
emotional depth and total indulgence. I hope this elucidation allows you
to feel the same.
I’m no stranger to intensity or passion; love and lust are my stock
and trade. I’m a junkie for it. And while the threat of pain is always
lurking just below, the excitement and pleasure far outweigh the fear.
The fear, that is, of getting hurt, as emotions are inextricably
entangled. I relish and adore your attention, and love to adore and
attend to you, worship at the altar of your cock as you ignite me, but
I’ll never ask you to give until it hurts. I don’t know how to be that
selfish; it’s antithetical to my nature. I’m all about pleasure, as
panacea to all the pain. This type of connection is not without its
complexities, which makes it all the more arousing. I want to evolve,
challenge and be challenged, and push each other to our sensual limits,
but only on our own planet, out on Neptune somewhere, not back on Earth;
the Sirens of Titan seducing us to the Liquid Sky.
Xoxox
Your quixotic, anachronistic, cock-sucking, Cosmic, Sex Kitten ; )
"Men will always fall in love with you. They always have. You are
alluring and evocative of that certain something they long to attain.
Which among them has the fiber, the connective tissues to allow you to
continue to seek what you desire even as you deign to please them, at
least in that fired moment? And yet, they cannot "allow" you anything,
your life is yours for the making. They delude themselves . . . You are
lovely and deep and wild and willful in your own way. Can you be
contained? I think . . . No. And yet you will pursue that ecstasy - one
more time, two more times, every time it feels soooo right. I think that
I will work to be here when you need me. A flicker of light. A scented
space . . . the musky smell of Man. A memory from the future. A dream of
past lives surging along our elliptical orbit across the Universe." ~ MN
Dave Alvin- King of California
"The long Poetess, stricken. Smitten with that bitter hunger. A bitterness that spurs you on, impels you forward, reckless (some say) and thickened by the turbulence of the swirl.
But I say no, not reckless at all. This is a measured descent with a hard-won calculus derived from time (years, eons) spent watching, baiting, fetching unwary travelers and temporary companions . . . " ~MN
********
"If there's not something wrong with me, there should be." ~ Johnny Thunders
The Birthday Party- Fears of Gun
I’m descending into some obsidian, psychosexual madness. My only solace found in the lascivious sleaze and melancholic smut. As the angst and perversion roil inside like Charybdis, swallowing sailors down her hungry gullet, I reel. Fingers down the throat of love, indeed."
The New York Dolls- Personality Crisis
"But you think about the times you did they took every ounce/
When it sure got to be a shame when you start to scream and shout"
Why I ever turn my back on punk, I’ll never know; it ebbs and flows over and inside. It electrifies me with power and lust, like a trashy, sordid shock treatment. Seducing me back into the cum-soaked brine of the Liquid Sky.
"If there's not something wrong with me, there should be." ~ Johnny Thunders
The Birthday Party- Fears of Gun
I’m descending into some obsidian, psychosexual madness. My only solace found in the lascivious sleaze and melancholic smut. As the angst and perversion roil inside like Charybdis, swallowing sailors down her hungry gullet, I reel. Fingers down the throat of love, indeed."
The New York Dolls- Personality Crisis
"But you think about the times you did they took every ounce/
When it sure got to be a shame when you start to scream and shout"
Why I ever turn my back on punk, I’ll never know; it ebbs and flows over and inside. It electrifies me with power and lust, like a trashy, sordid shock treatment. Seducing me back into the cum-soaked brine of the Liquid Sky.
Many thoughts crash through right now. I can see the light (for you) across the Chasm. I know how to spirit you across. I have the password and I will share it with you.
ReplyDeleteYou are bold, and yet not, since you are writing exactly that thing that moves you every day. This - this movement, this dance - is what you have lived out for eons. Your tale told is explicit yes and you recount it well, your passion, your desire, the lust held in your heart but, BUT, there is something omitted. Something soon to rise, to expand in a luxurious and luscious bloom that I anticipate with dread and exhilaration. Please please please take this to the next level!
ReplyDelete