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immaculate consistency…

Dear Gentle Sir,

At the crosswalk, the stranger eyes me from the other side of the street. He imagines what might be my favourite position even as he places me in his favourite position. He wonders what I might taste like. And if my full lips could make him cum.

He imagines his view standing over me, bent over, ass up, taking it from behind with the kind of wild pleasure he imagines he could give me.

He imagines my expression as I finger myself for him. He watches me intently. Trying to guess what my nipples look like. He notes my long, lean legs and imagines spreading them, watching my pretty pussy squirt all over his tidy work pants.

I allow this. I look him in the eye. He meets my gaze and for a very long moment, he believes that I want him just like he wants me. The light changes. We step into the street and we take deliberate steps towards one other.

I look at this body and appreciate its breadth and width. Without a doubt, his cock would fill me many times over. I note his strong hands and thick neck and the way his jaw clenches as we draw ever closer.

I see the hunger in his eyes—I know that look. He is expectant as our paths meet in the middle of intersection.

He slows a fraction, straightening his spine, making room in his pants for the throbbing shaft that is heating up for me. In that moment, I know I can say anything and it—he— will be mine.

And all that comes to mind is your name.

Only Yours my Love,

Lola xo

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insaziabile…

Dear Gentle Sir,

There is something about the midday light that elicits a particular kind of restlessness in me. It’s the same kind of shiver you can only see by looking in my eyes when you are say, feverishly swinging my legs over your shoulder to side-fuck me. Or, when you take my toes into your warm mouth and watch me moan and writhe with surprise.

I spend long periods of time trying not to touch myself when I think about you. I am rarely successful, however. Today, for instance, the image of your clenched jaw as you finger me into yet another feral cum spun me headlong into a series of toe-curling masturbation sessions.

And it is the watching – the way you look and watch and see me – when I am at my most open and therefore, most vulnerable; it is your beautiful eyes on me that somehow continue to rule over nearly every corner of my memory… and my imagination. Years later, I am still woven into the Mystery of being with you.

Today, I wanted to call you each time. I wanted you to sense how my smooth skin warms at the mere thot of you. I wanted you to hear my moans and throaty coos to remember how deeply you still move me.

I wanted you to ask me what I was doing… so that I could tell you how I couldn’t get the right pressure against my clit and so, just like when you’ve suddenly, needfully, and confidently picked me up or swung me around to suit your needs better, I too suddenly needed more. I wanted to tell you how quickly I pushed my bum back and up, one arm stretched out and supporting while the other pushed my lace thong down farther. All so that I could feel my own heat spread and put my full clit’s weight onto my knuckles and cum for you.

(And that was just the first round.)

With each round, I wanted to cum for your eyes and ears and taste buds and hands and cock and ass and inner thighs and heart and more… I wanted to cum for all of you. I wanted you here, naked with me in the soft, midday heat of this summer sun. I wanted you like I want you…

Now,

Lola xo

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the rain is like you…

I don’t know: this gravity elastic feeling to let go and fall together with you is one thing, but it is better to live exactly where you are with as many permanent emotions in you as you can muster.
Talking to myself.

Your spirit is with me.

the rain is like you

Please kiss whatever part of you can reach for me.

— John Cage —

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say it again…

Dear Gentle Sir,

There is that moment before I appear: it is the breath that catches you – not the other way around. It is the moment you didn’t know you needed to capture and hold because once I appear, everything changes; each and every time.

You tell yourself that this time is like any other time; you and I are here, together, seeing one another and really, it’s no big deal; we are here in this way, as we must be. But your body… and the surprising way your heart just tripped – barely a little – tells the true story of us.

You say it’s me but you surprise yourself, constantly; the way your skin reaches for mine through each inhale. (Don’t worry, we won’t discuss the ways you try not to smell me on your clothes moments, hours, days later.)

In fact, the way my head tilts as I listen does not make you want to sink into silence as you softly – deftly – bring out the tender, fervid treasure of secret pleasures within me.  And when my hair falls out of its tie, over my shoulders, and spills down my back, that is not an impulse to nibble my clit or lick me anywhere; you are immune to what has been and whatever might have…

When we laugh together, those tingles racing, racing, down and out and in and through your body are not because my boisterous laugh pleases your nor does it make you want to make me happy; you are not inspired by me. After all.

There is that moment before you check your watch: it is the pause before we touch one last time that claims your hope. It is the moment you didn’t know you needed to capture and hold because once I disappear, everything changes; each and every time.

Kiss,

Lola xo

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dilettante…

Dear Gentle Sir,

There is a man who believes I pine for him. This couldn’t be farther from the truth: this is one of many stories he tells himself to make himself feel better – his hollow attempt to right the wrongs he’s convinced himself are mine.

I am not thinking of what was never there with him when my tongue swirls around your balls, making them swing, inspiring delirious pleasure. I am too busy bucking up against you as you drill that beautiful, thick, pulsating cock into me.

I am relying on our moans and my taut nipples and your strong hands and our bodies – straining with pleasure –  to keep us here: now, right where we are, fucking and free.

Deeply Yours,

Lola xo

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each letter is truth…

I don’t know how to write love letters.
But I wanted to tell you that my whole being opened for you.

Since I fell in love with you everything is transformed
and is full of beauty…
love is like an aroma, like a current, like rain.
You know, my sky, you rain on me
and I, like the earth, receive you.

— Frida Kahlo —

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(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

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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

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a life in letters…

You are so dear, so wonderful. I think of you all day long, and miss your grace, your… beauty, the bright sword-play of your wit, the delicate fancy of your genius, so surprising always in its sudden swallow-flights towards north and south, towards sun and moon — and, above all, yourself.

— Oscar Wilde —

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not our darkness that most frightens…

You sit in the light for me because I ask you to. You wait. You stroke my leg with a secret smile, and let me drink you in. I lose myself in my looking, in all your shadowed man-grooves. I lose my breath in your stillness. This pause we take is a lesson I don’t want to forget. I close my eyes; I want to imprint you deeper. When I open them, there you are – still waiting – wanting to be seen.

We are learning to be with one another, here, in this light that softens the heated edge of an afternoon delight. You lean back and even from this distance, I can taste your skin. Even as my supple clit thickens and my lips whet, you wait for me to be done with you. And in such thots, we stumble. Headlong, we stumble past one another in the crowded halls of Time. A cycle well-worn.

What songs are sung for a soul who seeks?
Who dances when the moon’s teat drips with longing?

There is nothing poetic about falling in love; it is starkest reality and basest need exposed. Utterly, it spends us even as we bleed. To love is to choose to be raw. Open.

Here with you, I walk blindly into an ancient light that conceals nothing, a light that wholly reveals from the inside. And suddenly, it is me sitting in front of another, being seen. We have shape-shifted into all our Unexpecteds. What there is, though, is light; a light that changes everything.

Look up, my soul whispers.
Here I am, my sweet.
Look up into Love.
Walk into the light.

I see you.