out of the crowd…
1.
Out of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you; before long I die:
I have travelled a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you:
For I could not die till I once looked on you,
For I feared I might afterward lose you.2.
Now we have met, we have looked, we are safe;
Return in peace to the ocean, my love;
I too am part of that ocean, my love—we are not so much separated;
Behold the great rondure—the cohesion of all, how perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
As for an hour carrying us diverse—yet cannot carry us diverse for ever;
Be not impatient—a little space—know you, I salute the air, the ocean,
and the land,
Every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.— Walt Whitman —
the encounter…
(enchanted by this strange proximity)
Longing, and mystery, and delight…
as if from the swaying blackness
of some slow-motion masquerade
onto the dim bridge you came.And night flowed, and silent there floated
into its satin streams
that black mask’s wolf-like profile
and those tender lips of yours.And under the chestnuts, along the canal
you passed, luring me askance.
What did my heart discern in you,
how did you move me so?In your momentary tenderness,
or in the changing contour of your shoulders,
did I experience a dim sketch
of other — irrevocable — encounters?Perhaps romantic pity
led you to understand
what had set trembling that arrow
now piercing through my verse?I know nothing. Strangely
the verse vibrates, and in it, an arrow…
Perhaps you, still nameless, were
the genuine, the awaited one?But sorrow not yet quite cried out
perturbed our starry hour.
Into the night returned the double fissure
of your eyes, eyes not yet illumed.For long? For ever? Far off
I wander, and strain to hear
the movement of the stars above our encounter
and what if you are to be my fate…Longing, and mystery, and delight,
and like a distant supplication…
My heart must travel on.
But if you are to be my fate…— Vladimir Nabokov —
translated by Olga Voronina
minor walking miracles…
Dear Gentle Sir,
My clothes got wet tonite thanks to an accidental post-work shower overflow. I managed to get my pants mostly dried. I chose to walk home under a throbbing moon without any panties on. With every step, I thot of you.
Thrum,
Lola xo
(not so) easy to forget…
Dear Gentle Sir,
The first time I saw you naked, I wanted to climb you with a compulsion monkeys must have when they see a tall, glorious tree. I wanted to taste you in mango-sweet ways as one must suck and lick and test and devour divine succulence.
The first time I touched your barest of skin, I gasped.
I hope you always remember this fact.
The first time I saw you naked, I was already wet; every fold between my legs had been begging me to spread – they wanted you to hear how lovely your name sounds springing forth from inside me. I was already saying “yes” to every dream you had.
The first time you touched me, I lost my breath.
I hope you never forget this fact.
Yours from the Beginning,
Lola Moi xo
letters to a young poet…
To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation. For this reason young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot yet know love: they have to learn it. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered close about their lonely, timid, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love. But learning-time is always a long, secluded time, and so loving, for a long while ahead and far on into life, is — solitude, intensified and deepened loneness for him who loves. Love is at first not anything that means merging, giving over, and uniting with another (for what would a union be of something unclarified and unfinished, still subordinate — ?), it is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world for himself for another’s sake, it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things.
— Rilke
drink in the view…
Dear Gentle Sir,
My hands love your beautiful, moaning, jaw-clenching hard almost as much as my mouth does which is a very close to how deeply my pussy does.
When I spread, lift, arch, and fold myself for you it is so you can see my wet, smell my desire, and taste my need for you.
I reach for you with limbs splayed, with every whispered moan and guttural sigh, my curves twist to fit into your mouth, your hands, over and around your gorgeous, thick cock. It is not enough to see every inch of you, I want to taste you, too… inside and out.
My tenderest touch on your sweetest skin is shy adoration. My firm grip, a bold promise of trust, an oath to keep you safe inside the mysterious depths of our shared intimacies. My smile, a mirror to the many delights you are.
All I ask is that you look back into my eyes, hold your own and fight for us, protect and meet me in this delicious Unexpected where by some miracle we are truly seen.
And I will flower, I will cum for you. I will suck, suckle, stroke, ride, buck, fuck and make love to you with all the grace and hunger I am. And I am. Fuck, am I ever.
Dreamingly yours,
Lola Moi xo
for starters…
Exquisite.
Exceptional.
(That’s what you are.)
hours continuing long…
Hours continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted,
Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome and un-frequented
spot, seating myself, leaning my face in my
hands;
Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go forth, speeding
swiftly the country roads, or through the city streets, or
pacing miles and miles, stifling plaintive cries;
Hours discouraged, distracted—for the one I cannot content
myself without, soon I saw him content himself without
me;
Hours when I am forgotten, (O weeks and months are pass-
ing, but I believe I am never to forget!)
Sullen and suffering hours! (I am ashamed—but it is useless
—I am what I am;)
Hours of my torment—I wonder if other men ever have the
like, out of the like feelings?
Is there even one other like me—distracted—his friend, his
lover, lost to him?
Is he too as I am now? Does he still rise in the morning, de-
jected, thinking who is lost to him? and at night, awak-
ing, think who is lost?
Does he too harbor his friendship silent and endless? harbor
his anguish and passion?
Does some stray reminder, or the casual mention of a name,
bring the fit back upon him, taciturn and deprest?
Does he see himself reflected in me? In these hours, does he
see the face of his hours reflected?
— Walt Whitman —
the simple things (a beginning)…
… your hand moving hair out of my eyes.
… your mouth kissing me deep, and then deeper.
… your eyes tracing my shy curves.
… your jaw tightening as I writhe in delicious agony.
… the sound my skin makes on the sheets as I spread my legs wider for you.
… the way my nipples push against innocent material.
… the sway of my hips as I walk towards you.
… the way I cover my mouth as I belly laugh.
… drinking your smell in when I hug you.
… your finger dancing with my tongue.
… my big brown eyes looking up at you, seeing you.
… my dimples.
… our blush.
… watching your cock dance.
… your broad back under my fingertips.
… your first moan of many.
… our hands clasped tight.
… our legs entwined.
… looking deep into your eyes.
… my mouth opening to take you in.
… my hands reaching for you.
… laughing with you.
… your fingers slipping between my folds, looking for my wet.
… my smell that lingers after you hold me.
… your voice in my ear.
… tracing you down to your waist.
…. washing every inch of you.
… our breath holding when your beautiful hard first touches me.
… laying beside you and caressing your chest.
… hearing you say “yes.”