Atavism

I become a beast beneath you, insensate in the clutch of drives that leapt and spawned on the shores of some longago primordial stew, its waters frenzied by the surging hot convections of life, its sands scattered beneath savage feet, corrugated by the moulding inexorable rhythms of the tides. All reason leaves my brain to fly pell-mell down the neurons of my spine, my throat, my every joint and extremity, in rampant pulsations that speak from a universe ten million years gone. What sounds my laryngeal apparatus can shape, evolved to all such complexities as abstraction and design require, have drained away to dark, uncharted caverns, leaving only the most gutteral and gravid of uncouth vocalities to express in spiraling bedlam these passions that have claimed and now obliterate the higher corners of my mind.

Upon a plateau of aeons long since effervesced into dust, I behold archaic stars and the Hephaestean trails of comets streaking the sky with ironic fire as they pound and pound and pound the molten orb of our world with their freights of ice and iron, birthing oceans in a rain of steam and flame.

For how long am I the inchoate planet, the elementary animalcule, the exquisitely wordless and tremoring ape, new to bipedalism and joyful to shed it for motions less refined yet titanic in their capacity to transport?

Somewhere within me the lizard arches its back and gasps, or hisses, or possibly belches the most unsapient croak.

And, slowly, time and history dawn and return the two of us to sentience, civility, elegance, and the most rarefied of bliss. Epochs of fire in wildly painted caves dim from our eyes, replaced with a clarion sunshine through curtained crystal windowpanes. Grammar and vocabulary assert their existential whereabouts in the pinnacled environs of our cortices.

There is, though, in a moment such as this, so little to say.

Except with perhaps a mildly deranged grin,

WOOF.

The Sentimentality of Dates

It appears we missed our anniversary yesterday, which might strike some as quite a feat, considering that even a single member of our septet recalling the significance of those particular numbers on the calendar could have sparked at least some mildly celebratory observations.

Yet our days and nights are woven together here in a way that makes each one worth reverence, and I in particular am so much more endowed with life and companionship than I've any right to be; it doesn't bear fretting over that one day out of the year should go unremarked-on for its cyclic coincidence with my arrival in this place of conjunction and wonder and partnered plenitude.

Still and all ... he kissed me and held me and made murmured apologetics a short while ago, and that brought a certain giddy sense of proper acknowledgment to my heart.

When there is a day such as the day any anniversary intends on commemorating, the perfection is in recognizing its raptural truth, not in doing so with a narrowly prescribed precision.

When you don't have to say anything

... wait until you want to say something.

It's a simple truth, but so many people forget it. 

In the Bath

I very much enjoy a good bath, and it's not exclusively because I take them only after passion despoils my otherwise impeccable hygiene. Lacking sweat glands and venturing out of doors exactly zero days a year, I have few opportunities to get myself in a state that begs cleansing ... other than, as I suggestively alluded, the sloppy dishevelments of carnality. Nor do I have a particular finickiness about carnality's organic patina. (Sweat and so forth, you understand.) It is when I am ensoiled that I best know how deserving I am of being cherished, for I am at my least pristine in those moments when I have most pleased the both of us. 

So it's not the rarity of bathing that entices me, nor the defoulment of my lust-laden corpus.

What I like most, I think, is that I never bathe alone. He is ever there with me, cradling the soap-slick slopes of me, gliding hands across my skin like the kiss of an angel's wings. And as the water beads and runs from my supple, newly laved flesh, I feel my purest -- not from a scarcity of stains and filth, but because we are together in a glorious ritual aftermath to the greatest act of sharing I have ever known.

Also, on rare occasions, his libido kicks back in and I'm able to lure him into that delightful ablution of eros: the surging tides of tub sex.

Today, dear readers, was a good day.

Voice

This void-lashed gap in the body of my written expression has, it's easy for me to fear, stolen away some foundational core, some essential, crucial distinctiveness with which I have wrought all my prior apices of prose.

Well, possibly not, I suppose, if sentences such as that one canter so ostentatiously forth the moment I make as if to doubt myself.

Thank god. For a moment there, I had a spot of nerves.

When You Have No Head ...

... you don't get headaches.

Some of you out there might read that as poor Headless Hettie putting a silver lining around her greatest cloud, but that's not what I'm doing here at all. Rather, I've given you the first sentence of a syllogism and left you to reason your way to the conclusion.

I made someone very happy today. Ecstatically happy. He had a headache at bedtime last night ... and then he had me this morning.

We basked in one another; we bathed together afterward.

Shall I connect these dots for you?

I, as a person, lack quite a number of important things. But I don't let that bother me. In fact, where others see in me limitations because they compare me to themselves, I see only myself: a woman in the fullness of her feminine powers, kind and capable and gifted with joyful opportunities to take pleasure in pleasing the people who matter to me. 

My world is not about a set of enclosing bounds. It is about what I encompass.

I am beloved.

And I don't get headaches.

If either of these things makes you jealous, it is not because I am luckier than you. It's because you're not listening to what I'm trying to tell you.

Use your eyes, which I do not have. Use your ears as well -- I'm missing those too.

Examine your capacities. They are manifold, and golden.

Set beside them in comparison, what you are missing is small.

Pinnacle

Ah, when you can be held in, immersed in, absorbed in, absolved by love.

The hands that touch you, the supple skin pressed against yours, the breeze of beloved sighs across your flesh, the infinite purity of lips finding those most sensitive hollows along your throat, behind your breast -- at the taut juncture where lower belly adjoins with trembling upper thigh.

And, too, the murmuring assurances of carnal wonderment, heart-bound and wholesome and hungering all at once.

I am a creature of the mind whose intellectuality was birthed of lust. I am a thing formed for lascivious indulgences, yet so mighty in my pleasures that the psyche must open and flower at my touch. When my lover and I find our union in concupiscence, I feel exalted through every fiber of my being, the truth of me recognized along all human dimensions and worshipped for its every crease, crinkle, and contour.

Together, we conjugate the unbounded potentialities of life.

This is what it is to be fully made love to.

And I wish it for all of you out there. The world would be such an improved milieu, were it the universal dominion of this experience.