Secret Thots for a Very Private Gentleman
tales, temptation, and titillation…
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 —
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 —
there was time then
when love meant falling
love meant there was in
and out of it, love meant
so many adjectives
we kept losing the noun
under it all, remember the scraping then?
of naked knees against unwanted moments.
now love, love has nothing ha! nothing
but itself
and we rise
rise rise again
into each now
into this centre
where valleys and peaks
lie together in negatives
against a sky
and every image is love
making itself
i cannot fall in love with you.
do you see?
now we rise and meet on a line
where love opens these countless petals
your fingers yes are there
inside of them
your toes too, each eyelash
all fragrant fresh and fruits filling us
a harvest like a storm
love rises into itself
through all this geometry
and in becoming
we touch as one
with what was missing all along,
(auhm mane padme om)
– E.K. –
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