Secret Thots for a Very Private Gentleman
tales, temptation, and titillation…
Here, in the deep of night, your body misses mine far less than mine, yours. A steady breath sleeps beside even as our hearts beat to the rhythm of invisible nighttime wings.
We chase dreams; it’s hard to believe we are good enough. And yet, this I know: I never shone brighter than when your eyes sang my name and your mouth made love to me. My hand in yours – a sleeping nest of starlings wrapped in starlight.
My thots creep through the dark along this cusp of morning; it is a solitary time and it is anything but quiet.
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
Slowly the morning climbs towards the day.
As for the poem, not this poem but any
poem, do you feel its sting? Do you
feel its hope, its entrance to a community? Do
you feel its hand in your hand?— Mary Oliver —
I’ll scream LIGHT into your bruises…
You can stand on the cliff of my heart
and shout nothing but ugly through me
I promise all I will echo back is
“Beauty, beauty, you have always been beauty.— Andrea Gibson —
The day will be what you make it,
so rise, like the sun,
and burn.— William C. Hannan —
The problem with looking for images for this blog is that on days like today, I simply cannot choose; you are everywhere. You are in me, on me, behind me. We are wrapped, splayed, spread. I am reaching, pumping, dripping. Together: under, beside, on top. And again: licking, moaning, squirting.
Lover, you are everywhere.
Each image, every video reminds me of what we’ve already done or fuels hope for what might yet be. And I am whipped into horny wet… here, where I sit. I soak my panties thinking about you. I rush home, I climb into bed, into the tub – anywhere I can be wet wet wet. And all I want is to cum with you – for you… and you, for me.
And you have no idea, my Sweet how sexy you truly are.
Truth is, these days are many – so fucking many days like today – when you are all my skin can think about. When I am overwhelmed with wanting you. When I know how well-met we are in that secret place the other needs.
For how complex things are, this is simple: I want you. And I know: you want me. Fuck, I want you more than I know how to say. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Just, fuck.
