May 2, 2008
The Changing of the Seasons
It’s spring again.
We’re all coming out of the long hibernation, dragging our bodies out into the light and sun again, rediscovering picnics, parks, promenades, pool tables.
We’re putting away our winter woolen suits and outing our skin, letting it breathe again, letting the gym work pay off (or letting the lack thereof be noticed).
And me, I notice the girls: you’re everywhere. Seasons changing brings new fashion in a big city like mine, and I cannot help but to stare at the shift in shoes, in hemline, in neckline, in sleeve cuffs, in ankles.
These moments make me fear I objectify women too much. The feminist in me occasionally recoils. But isn’t there a difference between rude objectification and deep appreciation for the female form?
Of course, it is not just appreciation. Changes in season bring out the teenage-boy-in-heat in me, the desperation to fuck. I watch your swishy skirts and strappy sandals and I wonder how your hips move, how well you follow orders, how hard you like the pounding. How does your face flush when you come? Would your hands grasp for me, or for the mattress, or for the headboard?
Making women come: it is a skill I will never fully master, but for which I will always strive to perfect. Such infinite variation of pleasure, pain, release, surrender, power. I want a magic touch, I want a full year’s graduate study of the female orgasm, I want clipboards and a white lab coat to observe woman after woman getting off.
Not only because I aspire to be a good lover - also, I crave it. Need it like oxygen, water, like I need to finish a book once I get to the last ten pages. Something deep in me shudders and releases when I can hold you, shaking, until your body calms. Something in me is soothed to heal, to leave you better than when I found you, to convince you of your inherent beauty, if only one night, if only one moment, to bring you a little heaven in a little death.
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