One hand between my parted thighs, the other lost somewhere on his body,
The rare beating of a hummingbird's wings becomes
A steady African drum in my chest,
Rhythmically thumping inside, pounding my ribs into a happy, bloody pulp.
If my naked legs could sing, they would
Of the nipping breeze provoking them
Beneath my summer dress.
In the ice cold dead of winter, I scamper
Across crystallized lawns with my head held high,
Proud in my floral patterns
That so confuse the weather.
I writhe and cackle in the freezing wind,
Collapsing gleefully on the damp grass, drenched in uncensored desire,
Taking no action against the cold.
For here with him in this frozen moment,
What can harm me?
I'm safe in our universe where the Kama Sutra is our bible,
Where unlimited, unbounded eroticism possesses us and caresses us with such softness
And such flirtatious glances, it is nearly a Rococo painting sprung to life,
But stripped bare of all the lace and frills and frustrating restraint,
And left to its nasty, primitive roots of nudity and unhinged cravings.
With words that could make a woman fling herself from an open window,
He leaves me quivering like a crushed mouse,
Raping my sick fantasies and loving them, loving me,
Tasting my thighs like this flesh is all that can sustain him.
I swoon, soaking in the smell of this place,
The tangy scent of mangled bodies glazed with dry sweat,
And the overwhelming, lingering aroma of orgasms.
Imaginary walls enclose me here, pressing in around me, suffocating me
Until evocative monsters slink out from the shadows in the extreme angles of the room,
And threaten to devour the planets whole, raw,
Grinning their pearly fangs at me and taking me into their arms to whisk me away,
So I'm free, but on the brink of explosion in their imprisoning grasp.
I imagine they're glamorous, with glittering eyelashes,
Dressed conspicuously in tight leotards, leaping and twisting
More gracefully than ever I could
In a world where sex is the most powerful defense,
Leaving me powerless beneath their weapons.
I am glad of this chance—the chance to breathe in his scorching presence
And explore his generous offerings of control, of delicious, deranged power
That tickles and teases me inside, deep inside,
Where nothing, no one should ever be, but there he is,
Eliciting screams of agony, screeches of joyful torture that I so love,
The way I love him, the way he will never love me, and the way he says he does.
Ugly nakedness slaps together, so beautiful, so sick, so perfect,
Wet, absorbing it into our flushed skin,
Moaning and writhing and laughing while erections and sweet unknowns possess me,
Mocking me as I run nude across the eerie spectrum of righteousness in my head,
And stopping me dead in my tracks before I reach the side of good.
The brilliance of his authority is that it allows me not to care,
So I don't have to think or worry, knowing he'll protect me,
And I am safe beneath his cruel palm and whip.
A groan and a sweeping gesture, and in the throes of our desiring passion
We fall, as though on clouds,
And our eyes roll back and our bodies shake as we're suddenly intoxicated,
Glad to be released, horrified it happened, and devastated that it's over.
The indulgence has us panting in lakes of our own sweat,
Struggling to remain above the surface lest we drown,
Which, it seems, is inevitable.
So we drown! To hell with it all, we've drowned,
And we're not returning from our tragic, early deathbed.
Overdosed on calm, I'm shockingly still, pale,
My lips are turning blue,
And I cannot breathe. I cannot move. I'm not myself.
I'm his—happily and entirely his.
A touch of his hand where I'm sore and sensitive elicits from me a twitch of surprise.
I have forgotten where I am. I have forgotten who I am, and who he is.
But with an unfamiliar embrace, I remember,
And I once again collapse weakly in the wet grass, uncensored and uncaring,
An inanimate object, now, a plaything,
So glad, so giddy,
Full to bursting with intimate pleasure,
And bridled as his willing slave.
The cool earth soothes the burning brand that marks me as his.
I try to smile. My inability for it is wonderful. I sigh.
My degradation is so strangely erotic to me.
Oh, how I love to not exist.