three times my life has opened…

Three times my life has opened.
Once, into darkness and rain.
Once, into what the body carries at all times within it and starts
to remember each time it enters the act of love.
Once, to the fire that holds all.
These three were not different.
You will recognize what I am saying or you will not.
But outside my window all day a maple has stepped from her leaves
like a woman in love with winter, dropping the colored silks.
Neither are we different in what we know.
There is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slip of light
stays, like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor,
or the one red leaf the snow releases in March.

— Jane Hirshfield —

to which we are attached…

Dear Gentle Sir,

There are things I remember on nights like this when the moon is full and wind blows off the crashing waves of a lake.

There was the way it felt to walk hand-in-hand, your tall shoulder shadowing mine. Our smiles, silent backdrop to the tinkling summer leaves around us. The grit of sand underfoot, wrapped around my sighs just like your strong arms once held me.

The kiss that stopped us both. The hands that peeled our clothes. The legs that gripped you as you lifted and carried me. The bed that creaked under the weight of our anticipation.

The smooth edges of your groaning cock. The weight of your chest and hips. The wet roaming of our tongues. The bucking of our moans. The spreading of my legs and bending of my back. The fucking of our fingers and mouths and more… so much.

The way it felt to look into your eyes and want more. The way it felt to see my desire mirrored. The way you moaned and reached… for me, for your cock, for me… again. The spontaneous shifts and spreadings and splitting aparts to deeper wet, to heat beyond either of our wildest dreams.

To want you. To see you. To fuck you. To squirt for you. To cum with you. To find in you, reciprocal delight.

There are things I remember on nights like this when the moon is full and wind blows off the crashing waves of a lake. Mostly, I remember magic and minor miracles… puffs of Goodness. Mostly, I remember you.

Longingly Yours,

Lola Moi xo

arms above my head…

When I put my hands on your body on your flesh I feel the history of that body. Not just the beginning of its forming in that distant lake but all the way beyond its ending. I feel the warmth and texture and simultaneously I see the flesh unwrap from the layers of fat and disappear. I see the fat disappear from the muscle. I see the muscle disappearing from around the organs and detaching itself from the bones. I see the organs gradually fade into transparency leaving a gleaming skeleton gleaming like ivory that slowly resolves until it becomes dust. I am consumed in the sense of your weight the way your flesh occupies momentary space the fullness of it beneath my palms. I am amazed at how perfectly your body fits to the curves of my hands. If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth to this present time I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours I would. It makes me weep to feel the history of your flesh beneath my hands in a time of so much loss. It makes me weep to feel the movement of your flesh beneath my palms as you twist and turn over to one side to create a series of gestures to reach up around my neck to draw me nearer. All these memories will be lost in time like tears in the rain.

– David Wojnarowicz –

arms above my head

ode to the midnight hour…

And here is where I wait
Here
Where fading sky soaks coarse skin that life has made
My mould of bones in its exalted search aches
When
Under darkened leaves I drink you in
You your soft heart to touch to truth like water

– Lola Moi –

under a waterfall…

Dear Gentle Sir,

Those fingers between my lips – both of them – are yours. Here, against the shower wall,  I spread my long legs (with my foot propped on the ledge, leaning against you). The split of my impossibly smooth thighs invite you to push deeper, to race along the velvet corridor of my cunt. My hips tilt, guiding your eager tips to my sweet g-spot. My jaw drops. My hands find the back of your neck as the water races down, over my smooth mound. I am spread again. For you.

Our eyes meet as my hand grips your wrist, holding you inside me. I push you farther in. I want you here. I want you finger-deep in me and I want to fuck like this. At least for now. At least until you slip out and rub my clit with a focus and intensity that drills me into my hungriest self.

Then back inside. Please. Come back inside. Fuck me hungry like this. For now. Again.

Your fingers make me bite my lip, make me arch my back, make me push into you so that your muscles strain to hold me upright, to fuck me straight. Your fingers plunge, they make me moan. Even reading this, you feel the vibration of my breathless cry in your bones… and our desire leaks out of you in dewy drops that crown the head of your glorious cock. My juice fills your palm, and down your forearm, bathing you in adoration.

I need you like this, plummeting my depths, stirring up this passion, this connection we’ve only dared dream. All this that falls out of me and over you – is a waterfall of grace, appreciation… intimacy. It is my soul. This trust that spreads me and fills me, that makes me buck against you – calling me to dig my nails into your shoulder, bite your chest, and moan from the most secret part of me – is my gift to you.

Yes, you.

I love your hands; a gentleman’s palm… always. You, my sweet lover’s caress. My secret hunger made gorgeous flesh in you. Go on, choose: choose two fingers and turn the hot water on.

I’m waiting,

Lola Moi xo