Magnetic Presence, or, Magnificent Ass

She crashes over me like thirty-foot swells, battering aside my defenses like weather-worn, wooden palisades in a hurricane and I, tossed and turned by undertows, have managed to talk her out of drowning me. For the moment. Her tempers, I gather, are gathering tempests. She soothes and rages like Zeboim. She's a force of nature, beauty embodied in power. She'll leave me with scars if I'm careful and shattered, mercilessly, against a cliffside if I'm not. Though I've stayed afloat thus far by strength of will and crafty plays of word, it can't be long before my awe distracts me, and I drown.

Saying I want her is like saying the sun is bright. It is something that can't be quantified, unless broken into such minute detail it becomes hardly worth saying. I, by merely existing, want her. It is a simple truth, a physical characteristic, like the brightness of the sun. Something that just is.

Perhaps the sea salt in my blood has saved me, or the ocean air that clings to my lungs, trapped there as I am trapped, not unwillingly, in this current. I have never felt comfortable being too far from the ocean, more than a few hours drive to the coast and I grow listless, as if part of me is somewhere out of reach.

She is like that. Out of reach, unattainable, untouchable. On a plane somewhere beyond mere mortal perception. I feel as if some cosmic tear has been created, some rend in the membranous tissue between worlds, at even being able to glimpse her as she rolls over me. I would reach through, and run my fingers through her hair, but I'm afraid my flesh would simply cease to exist in such a place. We often glorify the object of our affection, but this feels less like desire, and more like a gift. The gods, it seems, are as infinte in their mercy as they are in humor.

I feel drawn in two directions, torn between dancing this silver-tongue dance, continuing to pirouette, to spin and leap until breath escapes me and I fall, panting, or dead, to the stage. Torn between letting the words that swell and churn within me continue to pour outward and stepping through that span between worlds and seizing her in my arms.

My fear then, is not that I would die in the passage, but what I would do once I laid hands upon her.

I could not shred such a creature, even should I be granted the power to tear waves from the sea. I could not sink my claws into her flesh, tearing into limbs and devouring her as I have so often done. Nor could I surrender entirely, give up the power I've craved and killed for, and allow her to devour me as so many have tried. I would wage a war within myself, then, a war without end.

I would relish every second.

She bursts in my imagination, a star going supernova. She could swallow everything in her path with pure, destructive energy, but she prefers to create like some goddess, bounding effortlessly from world to world and planting seeds on each, leaving behind roses and tigerlillies, flowering in the mid-afternoon sun. Each of them a garden, each of them teeming with lives.

Perhaps I have gone too far in a strange direction, now. From characterizing concepts as feminine entities to creating a concept of a woman, but I see little difference. She radiates, and I am pulled into her orbit, seized by gravity or something less substantial and more imagined. Something very akin to affection, but infinitely more vast.

Perhaps I've inhaled entirely too much water.

In time, I'm sure, it will rust my gleaming, steel armor. Cause my, admittedly golden, heart to decay, tarnish my silver tongue. The sea will come to claim me and I will go along with it. As I said, I have never felt right being too far from it.

Until then, I will have her, in this world or some other. In one capacity or another. I will wrap her in arms of flesh or of letters, and let her drift away on lilting lines of poetry or fall asleep on the rocking, steady beat of my heart in her ear. I will pour kisses across her naked skin like sweet, warm rain in late June, or I will spill out pages of sweet nothings, little nonsenses to coax a smile to her lips. And I will bask in that glow, from near or afar, as the tides may take us both, until the ocean claims my body, and the gods of this world or the next claim the soul.

Delightfully Yours,
-S.R.

Wound Round in Desire

I'm rapaciously salacious, tenaciously ostentatious. Every appetite voraciously edacious. I'm flirtatiously audacious, but fugacious as pages are capacious and calling me ungracious would be fallacious, then my outer skin's testaceous and setaceous but by nature I'm veracious and pugnacious, loquacious to make you sequacious, not mendacious though I'm hellaciously predacious and you're so damn curvaceous, those lips so vinaceous, that scent all rosaceous, you're down right bodacious.

How many adjectives can I rhyme? Throw in adverbs to add words to keep track of lost time. If I've spilled a million words in working spurts to earn my way, that's fine, because every spot of ink is worth the world to get inside.

I want you, is what I'm saying.

I'm all desires, the older I get the more I realize it. The only things that speak to me are needs and cravings, and while I'm all for the taking, I'd rather be given. You drive me mad with things I've never understood, and set me ablaze just by knowing that you could. You could reach through my pores and hook your fingers in my veins, shred my failing organs and claw your way into my brain, in turn I'd write you symphonies and shriek the verses all delirium. I'd kiss you but the kiss would be a thousand bolts of lightning, all streaking from the sky at once and turning me to ashes. I'd touch your lips just long enough to find direction for my blood to flow and when it all turned south I touch you only long enough to blow.

I've honed my tongue against the sharpened blades of all the worlds I've made, and turned the most erotic flights into those harsh realities, all I want is to turn you on, that alone would satisfy, then find that pool between your thighs, and take a dip and burst inside.

I want the taste of you to linger on my lips for days, long after the morning I awake to tangled sheets. Long after the smell of you has gone out of this room, long after you've flown west from here, guided by the stars, toward home. I wish I were less honest, or capable of promises that would entice you back into my bed, but I can only say I want you here instead of in my head.

I know my mind in ways a man should never know himself, but all that vaunted knowledge doesn't help to drive this longing out.

I want you collared, leashed, tied to my bedposts by your throat, unable to move but to protest the hungry way my teeth sink into your flesh, the insatiable wandering of tongue and hands, raking your skin and leaving the bruises and the red, ragged and jagged scratches behind like marking conquered territory. I want your back arches, legs trembling, the tone of every muscle defined by the way it strains against me, as if your own body is quarreling with how it wants more despite the agony. I'm feeling more sadist than sated and though I'd loathe to cause you pain I want to feed on every aching moan and take my nourishment from the sound a strap of wood makes when it welts your back, your legs, your ass, your breasts.

Until you beg me to stop or give into my lust. Until you want me more than I want you now.

If words won't bring you into my arms, I'll seize you. I'll storm those graceful walls and topple your defenses. I've never cared much for the seige, I prefer pitched battle on an open field, but you've conquered me from that palace I built you in my mind and though it seems deranged I find myself unable, unwilling to yield.

I'm wrapped around your finger, but before the end you'll wrap around me.

Lovingly, Lecherously Yours,
-S.R.

Imagination

I like to imagine I'm the man of your dreams. All wit and charm, quick with a joke that lights up your face and brings laughter bubbling out of your throat. Just as quick to urge my name from your lips with a look, a sharp gleam in the eyes that sends shockwaves through you from where my fingrnails touch your skin until every nerve is either a raging torrent or a searing inferno, until your need to feel more of me is all you can fathom.

I like to imagine you find me adorable, despite sometimes deplorable thoughts. Vulgar jokes and crude remarks aside. We all wanted to be coveted, regardless of our faults and flaws, in light of our virtues. Perhaps my constant references to Whitman will entice you, or the way I re-tell Shakespeare when I'm entertaining a crowd. Maybe the sly, subtle, occasionally obtuse references to absurd pop-culture or Dungeons and Dragons will be more appealing. Maybe its the half-bastard accent I take on when I've had enough to drink, swirling between just-Irish-enough-to-be-punched-in-the-face-by-an-Irishman and something I've made up on the fly.

I like to imagine you want me. Desperately, at times, the way I surely want you. For all my willingness to be obeissant, I have never liked to be more attached to you than you will ever be to me. I imagine its my words, my one real gods-given gift, that most attract you. For anyone that couldn't find some interest in them will undoubtedly find the rest of me drab, boring, and needlessly conceited.

I like to imagine taking you and being taken, the sex fraught with conflict, roiling and heady like great waves pummeling a cliffside, battering at the land as if it could reclaim what man has taken from the sea. I will be hard, commanding, and you'll leave me with cuts and bruises, tender wounds to remember you by while I'm away. You'll scratch and bites and tear my flesh. I'll make you feel like the first, the last, the only. The Alpha and Omega of making me cum.

And you are, in that breathless span of seconds, hours, days. That aching convulsion of limbs so remniscient of the whirling chaos that was the universe before the gods set it in order.

Too soon you'll wake from your dreams, and I'll become irrelevant.

But you'll return here, and we'll dance together. Slowly, spinning in circles on the sidewalk while cars pass and the streetlight overhead hums its constant tune. You'll flit away, on the trail of fleeting night, and I'll give chase. I've lived this hunt a thousand times, more. I've lived it in the secret places I keep hidden from outside. In the forest surrounding the cabin where I keep all my heart's collections, all my collected hearts. In the moonlit glade, near the fountain where the hunt always ends. On the cracked and broken road that leads off the edge of this world, through the utter darkness beyond, into the starry canopy still further, and then to another edge where nothing passes.

I've lived this hunt, lived for it, and never lived at all.

I have never chased you, never found you and caught you, never fallen for your laughter or fallen, laughing, into your arms. There is no green pasture, no seaside cliff where the smell of salt and life hangs heavy in the air. There is no willow staring off into a forest, contemplating like Macbeth watching Dunsinane. Or Aragorn peeering into Fangorn Forest.

I am, after all, only imagining.

I am, after all, only the man in your dreams.

Sleepily Yours,
-S.R.

Reconstruction

She holds the broken bits of me. The shards and shades of things I was, the half-mad, scribbled aspirations, the shreds of plans laid firm on paper. Nothing concrete. She cradles the pieces in strong, capable hands, holding them close as she might a child. Cradles all the jagged bits that would cut the flesh, spill the blood, soak up the life of another for sustenance. She holds me, all in tatters, raving at the wind, and succors me. She sings me songs of lightning or of love or sweat or, better yet, she sings to herself and I am suddenly, utterly, enthralled.

I find myself listening while she sings, humming a tune as my vocal cords are woven back in place. Softly, now, lest I interrupt.

My fists unclench, the fingers flex. Small wonder those recover so quickly. I can build or destroy in equal measure with those hands, and now the temptation arises anew. I may reach up and stroke her cheek, follow the jawline to her lips, kiss her with my fingertips, or wrap my hands around her throat and end the healing now.

My lips are dry, but my tongue soon follows and I find my appetites whetted. What those are is hard to say.

I feel her move, sure-footed, and wonder how she holds me still. Perhaps she hardly notices the barbs that lance her palms, the weight that rests upon her arms. Perhaps I am still weightless. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. I have ever been one to question. Rather, posing answers to which there was never a question.

She sings and I have made my choice, my instincts all be damned. I will keep my thirsts in check, and strain to feel her hands. My nerves, exposed, send sharp sensation careening into space. There is not enough left of me to tell pleasure from pain. My heart begins its throbbing beat, my blood begins to flow, and still she sings that song. I think I may recall how I became this shattered mess of glass and bone.

I stood to turn the world aside, no. A storm arose and swept toward me. No. I stood, and that's all that stands out. I stood alone, a fool, and went bare-chest into the rain, with only words to guard my back, to help me keep my feet. But somewhere in that driving wind, somewhere in that tempest, I forgot the words and I was borne away in pieces. I drowned and burned and bled and screamed. I died, over and over. I reached out, grasped for strength and gasped and the darkness was all I knew.

I recognize the song she sings. I recognize the words. All the strength I've ever known came from those. She must have found me, lying there, wrapped in my own entrails, and gathered me up from the ground, and carried me away.

My lungs are full of fluid, my eyes are full of blood.

She's given me my only gift, squandered and forgotten. Spent in more futile pursuits, and left to spoil in the sun. I am, at once, content and full.

I am a creature of facets, cracked and fractured. I feel paradoxical, weaving between fragile porcelain and adamantium. I am weak and indestructible, meek and invincible. I revel in revelry, in the gift, the gods-given gift of words that pour from my tongue like sweet, smoky bourbon. I am intoxicating, invigorating. I am quixotic to the point of neurotic and though, necrotic, my limbs have all rotted away I find a tonic in her voice. If I'm catatonic it's by choice. I've spent too many dreams already, too many ill-gotten words on bodies that discarded me or were discarded when I woke from the passion and found them limp and ashen.

I'm cocaine, charm and brazen, brashly boasting how I'm potent enough to interrupt the flow of libido and turn the weak upon themselves for my own amusement. I'm fishooks in her flesh even when I seek to be less. Though I want to build her up, to write her dreams into reality, to play god and see all the good I can do, I know a part of me will always want to sink in, addiction, and never let her loose.

And suddenly, I've become self-aware. I can smell the fragrance of the flowers in her hair, I can see the way her lips move in time with her song and I can't help but wonder how she's held me for this long. I can't help but staring, I can't help but reach out and touch her with my own skin. She arcs into me like lightning, scatters my thoughts and turns me inside out. She dips her head, raises me to her lips and kisses me. I taste for the first time, I feel for the first time, I breathe for the first time.

Kissing her is like being created.

I find my feet, firmly, standing on my own. And for the first time in eons I feel entirely at home.

Yours,
-S.R.