on physical love

young lover, imagine what it feels like to be in her skin. what it must feel like to be young and feminine and sexual, legs laying in wait, beneath a skirt which accents everything she feels coursing over her skin like slow motion radar blips and white noise on muscle. her body leans against itself creating sensations of pushing and pulling-her body is the physical way she experiences the world. and it sags, and aches, and forgets, and exercises, and remembers, and snaps to awareness, and emits 3-dimensional vibes and survives her. and inside, it must burst in light in some way, which you must discover. you should want it. you should want to know it. and in this way, you can know her.

how do you become a better lover? first, how don’t you? second, you can speed up the process by seeking a balance between torrent and low tide, between giving and receiving, between euphoria and the calm joy of knowing. the secret of life is clearly balance.

imagination is everything and forget about her. think of yourself in an unusually jealous way. recognize your real needs and pursue them with abandon and lust and envy and jealousy and righteous, rage-filled rapture, and you will give more than you had any idea you could. oppose your sense of urgency so that you will know the thrill of teetering in time and watch as the patient knowing and putting off, the push and pull, the aggression and waiting, the truth and the act, the tender and the brutal, the earnest and the flip, the agony and the ecstasy, the love and the disregard, the warm and the cool, the in and the out, the touch and the absence, the confusion and the clarity, all dance and come together.

my body was skinny so the muscles were not large but they were there, firm and palpable and visible beneath a young man’s skin. she must have enjoyed that vigor of the physical prime, feeling me warm and not so much soft as consistent, olive-colored and bony in places, contacting her in motion, hot around her ears and neck, cool where our feet brushed against one another, firm or collapsing.

the sensation of kissing, of having her swollen bottom lip softly between both of my lips, sucking gently, of forcefully pulling her tongue deep into my mouth, feeling the tissue beneath that tongue distended and releasing her but licking her teeth and dragging your lips, perpendicular across the breadth of her opening and tasting her mouth and thinking only of her and how sweet and brave and true and right and balanced it is of her to offer herself to you.

i think in her mind she imagined herself a sexual being, a pulsating, reasoning, thoughtful life form carrying the act of procreation further into the realm of the artistic and evolutionary. i think she thought of me as she held me, and believed in the giving, believed in the worthiness, thought herself refined for engaging in this perfect union. i think she allowed herself to lapse into the animal for moments and stretches, relying purely on impulse and embracing need and acting from instinct which of course means, fucking like a documentary, biting and scratching and yanking and hurting and teasing and fucking and slapping and tickling and exploring and pushing for moremoremore and basking in the enjoyment and forgetting about everything from breathing and sweating to responsibilities and mores and expectations and others. i think she knew the movement embodied and represented happiness. i think she knew it was real and metaphorical. i think she tried to please and she pursued her own. i think she loved. she did, she loved.

when the pace increased, i fought a losing battle, never waiting enough, never being content but struggling none the less to capture the tantric. i lifted her with tense hands. i needed to squeeze her and feel her physically as much as possible, in legs entwined, in breath on my face and lips and cheeks and noses that brushed against each other and hands that stretched out arms and splayed and let muscles run up and down each other and ribs like little waves of existence and full, firm, round and pliable breasts and bony, sweaty abdomens, and her clitoris beneath the head of my cock prodding and bringing warmth and movement and moisture and openness and entry and to feel like we acted in unison from the basest desire to the most profound agreement. the salty taste of her skin as intercourse developed was as sublime as memory. the twitching of muscles in bodies as two motions interwove and locked into pattern and sped up and tensed unto hard banging and bashing, twisting expressions and hastening the lines of character seemed of the purpose of life. the in and out was natural and real and lovely and when it all came to climax, to release together was a perfection, a moment of disbelief, a disconnection from time and reality, an achievement of two. it was fun and funny, relief and relaxation, beautiful and blind, breathless and vulnerable.

i imagine she felt satisfied from being so thoroughly desired. i hope she felt cute and feminine. i guess she felt like a woman and gathered the security of knowing the things of life one can sometimes feel insecure about knowing because the writers have exaggerated them to such a degree she might not know what is normal but in this moment, through all of this, the meeting and smiling and feigning and reciprocating to the fulfillment of giving and receiving and sharing in utter truth and dignity, shunning always the affectations and insecurities of those who do not aspire to be saints, she knows beyond any doubt that she is all that she should be and all that she wants to be and she relates to despair and hopelessness through her contentment and positive outlook and she basks in the knowing and feels equal to katherine mansfield and virginia woolf and jane austen and emily bronte and george eliot.