February 1, 2008
My Lover’s Absolute Devotions
My lover has fallen in love with my pussy. By stating this, my lover’s in-loveness, I don’t mean to suggest that there was a time when she didn’t like my pussy, if not love it. I mean rather to suggest that what she feels now seems to have turned a more scarlet shade of passion, a richer hue of devotion, a more singular tone of monomania. My lover is seriously in love with my pussy.
She kneels, she kowtows, she pays deep, wet, and oral obeisance to my cunt. She seems unable to help herself; she loses control; she stampedes toward my pussy. There is only the sweetest, too brief interlude at my mouth, the quicksilver flash of her tongue rolling in my mouth like a piece of sashimi, the gum-rubber slickness of her lips. There is a cursory stay at my neck; she pulls my head back and she pauses like Rousseau’s lion at my gypsy throat. She bites, but all too fleetingly. She takes a detour—the swiftest pit-stop—at my breasts. She sucks one nipple, she bites it as if she were nipping a berry from a bush. She suckles, summarily. She then descends, rapidly, single-mindedly, thrillingly, to my hoary depths so that she may worship at the altar of my cunt.
Her knees amid the dustbunnies, she kneels at my bed’s side. Eagerly, she prises apart my legs, and tenderly she rests my left foot on her thigh. I can nearly feel her vibrate in anticipation. I can absolutely hear her inhale. She draws me into her like a diver breaking the surface. She can wait no more. She sinks her mouth on me as if she hasn’t fed for weeks; her tongue is pointed and sharp as a shard of glass. I have to stop her often. Make your tongue soft, I tell her. It’s too hard. Her tongue gets tumescent in her deep-dark obligations to my pussy.
My lover licks and sucks. She’s found what works and she works it. She nibbles and she flicks, she toys and she titillates. She sucks a finger, flips her palm up toward the sky, supplicant-like, and she inserts first one finger and then a second. She curves her fingers beseechingly inside me. She makes come-hither signs, rasping her tips against the cat-tongue roughness of my g-spot. Silent but for the wet-slick slurp, she urges me closer with fingers and with her mouth.
“Come,” she says without saying. “Come,” she says to my pussy, this wet-open persimmon-slick, lemon-sweet part of me.
As she does, I am distant. In my head, I’m miles above and beyond her. In my head I’m otherwhere—a tawdry vision shimmers and gasps in the dusky depths of my fecund imagination. It’s too dirty to describe, this chiaroscuro of my mind; it conflicts with the shiny bright worship of my lover’s tender absolutions at my beloved cunt (though I know not for what sins she needs absolving). I am miles away from her. I reach down, miles below my waist; I find her face and I trace the curve of her nose to anchor me, to pull me back to her, to us, to this pleasure she gives me because she loves it.
I have grown jealous of my pussy. It seems to be something that I am not. My body languishes in abject dismay and petulant envy. To my pussy alone my lover serves her devotions in an ancient tongue. She worships and my goddess-pussy answers. I become its handmaiden, a conduit for its rapture. She beckons, beseeches, plies and offers. My pussy responds and I speak out in shuddering tongues, and I resent it.
I feel lost in my lover’s devout relationship with my pagan cunt. I am beside the point. I am there, a vessel, a mute being who holds the godhead, a signifier without a signified, a placeholder. I am nothing, until my lover comes and returns to me, and sees me whole and complete, a woman reborn in her eyes, and not a mere trail of pleasure parts, some more purely transcendent than others.
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