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you need a lover who can set you free…

We need wild, free souls in love and friendship, the kind who are not afraid to bite us into awakening and feeling. We need to stand tall in our full-blown humanity, vulnerable and passionate, willing to jump in with another and take the fall.

We need to be that openness.

Let us not be afraid of revealing ourselves as we are, because we are cosmic miracles. Let us not shrink back upon being truly seen, but grow taller and swell wider with the pulse of life… Let us abandon ourselves to the pleasure of discovering another human being and to the pleasure of being discovered.

Why does this matter? Because we are never as guarded as when we are seeing someone who lights a spark within us—and there is never a better time to lay our guards down and speak our soft, sweet truth, backed by nothing but the infinite depth and yearning of our hearts.

We must become each other’s wild souls. We must howl to the moon in freedom and let our hearts speak out loud to pinch us back to life, to remind us that we are not the masks we put on; we are infinitely more. We must stop playing at the game of love and start loving instead.

   —Stefania Chihaia—

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screensaver….

Every woman I have ever loved has left her print upon me, where I loved some invaluable piece of myself apart from me — so different that I had to stretch and grow in order to recognize her. And in that growing, we came to separation, that place where work begins.

screensaver

— Audre Lorde —

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here, in the everyday…

I watch a hummingbird hover outside my window.
I sip tea.

I sit on benches, overlooking pristine nature scenes I cannot even fathom the making-of.

I finger myself and the crisp sound of linens crinkling as I spread my legs makes me gasp your name.

 

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while i invisibly remain standing…

I don’t need you to paint a picture for me; I know what it is to feel you beside me. I know how it feels to look at you and silently name you “Friend” and “Lover” and “Beloved.” These quiet truths I solemnly commit to memory. They rock me to my core — not unlike the silken tip of your throbbing cock that wakes you from day-walking and deepest sleep… insistent.

We have found ourselves in this place that only makes sense when we are both here; this hallowed space we have created and nurtured and grown. I know what it is to feel your eyes on me and not want to hide. I know what it is to spread myself wide and feel your depths inside me. I am the light shining through each achy, heady bead of pre-cum bliss.

Invisible, we are everywhere. Tonite, now: I run my finger along the smooth, downy-soft topside of my clit. I do this for you. I do this for me. You will likely forget my small, tender creases of secret pleasure but never forget how each is stamped with your name. It is so simple: I want to make love to you as badly as I want to fuck you. Our withdrawal gives me the shakes.

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we are casual in our arrival…

http://movidoaputaria.tumblr.com/post/74449366065

To the uninformed, we are two people, neutral in our delight, calm in one another’s company. No one could guess that deep in the night (during the hours that bewitch the morning), you lick your finger and feel the texture of my juice. Still. Unlike your tongue, no one knows quite how my clit swells. Unlike your eyes, no one has seen me bend and beg and coo and ride us both to freedom. Few could paint with words the way you draw me deeper into these noises I make – like velvet grinding into steel. It is impossible for anyone to know the ease with which we sit together over a meal or a drink – every syllable our eager fuck, our sweet love-making in every swallow.

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the real thing…

It’s to do with knowing and being known… Carnal knowledge. It’s what lovers trust each other with. Knowledge of each other, not of the flesh but through the flesh, knowledge of self, the real him, the real her, in extremis, the mask slipped from the face. Every other version of oneself is on offer to the public. We share our vivacity, grief, sulks, anger, joy… we hand it out to anybody who happens to be standing around, to friends and family with a momentary sense of indecency perhaps, to strangers without hesitation. Our lovers share us with the passing trade. But in pairs we insist that we give ourselves to each other. What selves? What’s left? What else is there that hasn’t been dealt out like a deck of cards? Carnal knowledge. Personal, final, uncompromised. Knowing, being known. I revere that. Having that is being rich, you can be generous about what’s shared — she walks, she talks, she laughs, she lends a sympathetic ear, she kicks off her shoes and dances on the tables, she’s everybody’s and it don’t mean a thing, let them eat cake; knowledge is something else, the undealt card, and while it’s held it makes you free-and-easy and nice to know, and when it’s gone everything is pain. Every single thing. Every object that meets the eye, a pencil, a tangerine, a travel poster. As if the physical world has been wired up to pass a current back to the part of your brain where imagination glows like a filament in a lobe no bigger than a torch bulb. Pain.

— Tom Stoppard —