Tag Archives: echo of a true touch


Dear Gentle Sir,

When I say your name, my heart rumbles
much like a lion roars when it knows it’s right.
If only we could know the future, we might roar more.


if freckles were lovely, and day was night
and measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie
life would be delight
but things couldn’t go right
for in such a sad plight
i wouldn’t be i

if earth was heaven and now was hence
and past was present and false was true
there might be some sense
but I’d be in suspense
for on such a pretense
you wouldn’t be you.

if fear was plucky, and globes were square
and dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
things would seem fair
yet they’d all despair
for if here was there
we wouldn’t be we.

— e.e cummings —

every time i’m with you…

When you talk, I must focus on the shape of your words because your voice is already sucking on the softest part above my collarbone, between my neck and my shoulder (and I hope it leaves a mark). And when you smile? Oh, fuck: my cunt is instantly whetted with you-shaped need. When you pause to consider your next thot, I can’t even look at your lips or jaw without fear of giving away the throb that overwhelms my clit; I look away as I cross my long legs and squeeze my anklevery time i'm with youes instead. When our eyes do meet, I am done: I’m already fingering myself on my knees, watching you free your beautiful cock, my jaws slack with wonder. When you assert your heart’s truth, I cross my arms, I fidget, I make… tea, yes, tea… so that I won’t caress and kiss your face and turning, wait for you to pull my panties down so I can bend over — my smooth aroma coaxing out the sweetest of your delicious moans. When you gesture the way you do, I distract us with teasing and talk about others so that I won’t press my slim, naked secrets up against you, so that you won’t notice how my breath still catches every time I see you.

Full of wanting is my cum.
Inside me, your fullness.

perhaps you will…

I just want you to lie still. Naked, in front of me. I want you to let me look at you, really look at you in all your glory. I want you to see my acceptance. I want you to see my delight. I want you to see my desire for the man you are, lying before me. Don’t close your eyes while I tenderly trace your skin. Be prepared for when I look into your eyes so that our souls may lock even as my fingers and hands continue their journey along your various lengths and widths.

You are glorious. Your giving heats my cheeks. Your quiet moans and wild eyes soak me through. You are so fucking beautiful when you are… this. I could spend all day like this with you.

And what textures you are! Touching you like this, like your lover, quickens my breath. Your body’s dance is my song. Soon we will sing and our cries will crescendo and harmonize and in sweaty disarray, I will let you watch me cum and beg you to join me.

I hope you will.

perhaps you will

not the first…

Dear Gentle Sir,

I loved a man who was afraid of the Possible – the enormity of it. With me, he began to experience himself in his truest dimensions, that is, until he couldn’t bear it. So, he blamed me for his growing fear. He became afraid of me, not realizing it had nothing to do with me; I simply showed up and held up a mirror. He looked. He saw. He chose another – as is his wont. He prefers that which keeps him, contains him, controls him.

But even now, it is still in him – all that is Possible.
And it still has nothing to do with me.

These days, he tells himself things are great, that he is in a better place than ever before but he’s a step beside where he was before me: he is still small; he remains secretly, deeply afraid of the enormity of himself, of his own Light. He is happiest when he can hide.

Where once there was love, there now lives insight and a kind of wounded wisdom. Every time I kiss you, I wonder if you will (again), like him, take your turn and blame me for your fear? Or will you focus on my nipples, my glowing clit, and hot moans… hoping to drown out the terrifying call of what is Possible within you? Of the choices you are too afraid to make?

Truth is, it won’t be the first time.
I imagine you won’t try to be the last.
If I’m still here, that is.

Thoughtfully Yours,

Lola xo

the anatomy of being…

I look at you and see all the ways a soul can bruise, and I wish I could sink my hands into your flesh and light lanterns along your spine so you know that there’s nothing but light when I see you.

— Shinji Moon —


by muteness as by a scream…

by muteness as by a scream1by muteness as by a scream








by muteness as by a scream

by muteness as by a scream

by muteness as by a scream

by muteness as by a scream

when dreams feel like real life…

Dear Gentle Sir,

Must I remind you?

When you hold me, firmly, losing yourself inside the flavours I am.
Your voice, especially when pleasure overtakes you.
Your hands gently, almost secretly, caressing mine.
The growing bob of your eager cock, and the way you watch me enjoying you.
The shiver you make when my tongue and lips read between the lines.
The surprise on your face when I blush from your masculine beauty.

The moan I am when I am with you.
The fucking moan I cannot keep inside.

Achingly Yours,

Lola xo

out of the crowd…

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.

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

last night i sang…

I’m fighting myself. I know I am.
One minute I want to remember.
The next minute I want to live in the land of forgetting.
One minute I want to feel.
The next minute I never want to feel again.

— Benjamin-Alire-Sáenz —


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