When I think of making love. . .
I think of airy lightness, like a dandelion plume floating carelessly in a gentle, warm breeze. Bodies feel like they’re floating above sheets, with skin like wisps of electricity, dancing with light — light from candles, light from sun, light from eyes.
I think of deep, cleansing breaths & the manner in which bodies seem to become enveloped by to those rhythmic exhales, surrendering.
I think of sensuality. Awareness heightened, senses honed, logic suspended. Every touch, kiss, & thrust is perpetually timeless. They go slowly, slowly, slowly against time, not dawdling but idling, lingering, savoring. There is no hurry.
I think of breathless climaxes with smiles on faces, full of relief & love. Blood rushes to meet pleasure spots, warming, engorging.
Making love feels like the luxurious tips of swan feathers; like innate grace with heaps of vulnerability; like goosebumps; like home.
Making love smells like sandalwood; like freshly brewed coffee on a dreary Sunday morning; like your lover’s favorite band t-shirt; like the color purple.
Making love sounds like raindrops dripping onto fallen leaves
Making love smells like sandalwood; like freshly brewed coffee on a dreary Sunday morning; like your lover’s favorite band t-shirt; like the color purple.
Making love sounds like raindrops dripping onto fallen leaves
When I think of fucking. . .
I think of saucy, raw, almost brusque eroticism.
I think of saucy, raw, almost brusque eroticism.
I think of steaming windows & moans that escape the basin of bellies. Fingers grope around flesh searching for an end to latch onto, kneading, wanting. Tongues thrash around mouths never quite satiating their desire.
I think of tangible, voracious lust; of clothes that hang haphazardly from fumbling limbs. There’s franticness in movements, as though time is speeding up & one can barely keep up.
I think of sexual urges that have no filter. Pain mixed with pleasure mixed with pain. Arms & legs on the verge of buckling, held up only by gnawing desire.
Fucking feels like heat & humidity; like slowly going mad with lechery; like wild romps through dense forests; like an itch begging to be scratched.
Fucking smells like salty sweat; like smoke from a burned out candle; like alcoholic breaths; like copulence, sweet & earthy.
Fucking sounds like heavy bass; like sharp, well-meaning obscenities; like a YES that’s been uttered with total truth; like animals fighting.
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