Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
— Wendell Berry —
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
caçadores de tempestades…
I undress you
because I want to
and in this simple action of removal
you are seen.
Like a whirling dervish
my tongue weaves magic.
Your breath the wind
bending tree boughs to its will.
A curtain parts
The space inside blooms.
Out here in the real world
people suffer a kind of emptiness they do not understand.
That echo they hear
whenever they speak?
they hear as car horns
or train tracks clicking past nowhere on the horizon.
There is no velvet to touch
No silk to grip, to sing into.
My lips part to say your name
The storm approaches.
– Lola Moi –
far beyond yourself…
L
drink from this, my well of jubilation
seep into the crevice where stories blossom
triumphant
glorious
fearless
lead me to the water’s edge
see me as a vision
see me as i am
a woman
a man
a heart beating strong
a massive jumble of a puzzle
lost and found
drink from this, my well of silent suffering
seep into the crevice where laments thrive
searing
formidable
cleansing
my hand cups the truth
covers my mouth
and still you sing to me from tomorrow
i will meet you there
i will not falter
nor hide
there is no shame
in who or what has been
i will meet you
there
across a chasm i cannot fathom
i will meet you there
there
i will be
L
– Lola Moi –
the blessing…
I can only bite my tongue when you get on your knees Pinch my nipples to match the thrill of your coarse face grinding into my smoother-than-silk clit Pull your hair with each lap your tongue makes I can only bite 
your shoulder with each breath you heave then moan then moan then moan Lose yourself knuckle deep in me Dip yourself ball-heavy against me Hold my hips as I squirm your initials in the air Lick my pussy juice as it trails your throbbing shaft Your cock my fuck pole of delight that never ends Just don’t stop yet Panting each moan buck quiver whimper cry for this and that and yes and yes and oh fuck yes This moment of meeting and parting again and again inside and out upside and down I can only bite my tongue from begging you to stay to stay to stay one moan longer.
the once and future king…
The best thing for being sad … is to learn something. That’s the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.
– T.H. White –
my body is a cage…
My skin is soft but what part of me isn’t (besides the scars, I mean)? My skin, a kind of map, a version of me you choose to trace and buy into. At least for a time. I imagine your fingers trace me because, like me, they are curious about the route we are on and like me, wonder what sights we will see along the way.
We seek direction even when we say we prefer to be lost.
My body secretly warms to your touch; we pretend there is nowhere else you’d rather be. And when we smile, it is not because anything has settled, it is simpler than all that; it is because something grows – and the mystery of our meeting, and sharing, and fatally flawed offerings fill us to spite our tenderest selves.
Yet, in the abundance of hope, in the sanctuary of faith, I speak words full of sacred. I speak the fullness of myself. I utter shape that carves the path leading straight to my heart.
And we dance.
And we dance.
And we dance.
The word comes from the body. When you speak, breath reunites thought with flesh. And with that comes a whole new awareness of what might be true. Or not.
Or not.
– Lola Moi –
fuck…
Dear Gentle Sir,
When you fuck me, don’t say we’re making love.
Just ride me. Let me ride you, my dark mane gone wild. Slip your need deep into the velvet caress of my throat. Mould my tits to your strong hands. Squeeze. Ply me open with your tongue. Sweat with me. Thrash your head side to side, try not to grip the pillows. Try not to get lost. Try not to want more. Try, with each groaning gasp to tell yourself this fuck is not who you are. Let all those fingers slip inside and pound my tender cum-spot. Make me ripe. This wet splashing over eyes closed, arched spines, clenched toes. A cock alive, dancing for more. Pumping. Pounding. Pulsating. All into me. Turning us each inside outside the other.
This is not love. This is more. And nothing like before.
Fuck,
Lola Moi xo