She wrapped me in her quilted smile
then torched the salty fabric of us,
tear stained and aching.
She knees cruel in the balls.
And I love her that way just the same.
She hangs me up to dry,
then cuts me down for air.
The breathing windows of us,
pulsating walls setting chairs rocking,
us inside, lulled in four-arm sleep.
We decided our favorite coffee is wine on this sweaty hot summer late afternoon. The temps rose to about 88 degrees even here at the beach. So we met at a wine bar by the water instead of our usual siesta hour coffee place. I enjoyed a Patson Hall Chardonnay, chilled, and she a Central Valley Pinot Noir, whose name I forgot. Cheers, clink, and she was off. First the job, politics, and then her current “person of interest.”
Her: I like a guy who talks me up dirty. Just gets me going, like when D***** says, “Gonna pump sum jiz in you” right before he cums. I want to scream, “Go, go, go for it, fucker!!” And her voice does get loud.
I wince, probably visibly. I mused how I’m more of a Nike kind of girl. Don’t announce. Just do it.
Her: I must have some sort of oral fixation that I get off on sex talk like that, his mouth clenched in urgency, coughing out, “Here it cums, baby.” Makes the finale all the more spectacular. I should have been an actress, not a business major. It all seems so meta sexual, you know, like acting out sex inside the sex act. You know what I mean?
I nod. Honestly I did. Like sex in front of a mirror. The self-consciousness of the act as act. The wine buzz would not let me fall into the full possibilities of sex, mirrors, and performance. I shook it off, silently.
Her: I mean when T** and I were seeing each other, he was the quiet church mouse type. He performed all right, but I never could gauge the decibels of his pleasure like I can with D*****. I can coordinate my own orgasm much easier with the verbal cues.
The church mouse visual stuck in my mind, I just then remembered the guy who shushed me during sex. We had been dating for a few months; it wasn’t the first time we were going at it. But he all of the sudden unquestionably shushed me, like I was making too much noise. The only thing missing was the hand covering my mouth.
We were at a hotel. He had kids, a divorce, too soon, all of that. And what? He didn’t want to disturb other hotel guests? I wasn’t screaming, that’s for sure. He was a serviceable lover but not scream-worthy. I was stunned, totally thrown off. I didn’t even question why or how or what. But afterward, I became hyper aware of the sounds I would have made had I not stifled them before they came out. I couldn’t cum.
It wasn’t long after that we broke up. I’m not sure if it was because of that. We just didn’t have enough gelling to get over the breach.
The server came by just then. “Yes, I’ll have another. Same.”
Image: the Purple Passport
I never expected you, never saw you coming, not at all,
but there you were, wearing all the wrong clothing:
horizontal striped collared button down shirt, like
colored bands ringing a thick, redwood tree trunk.
Middle aged folk fallen prey to time and gravity
don’t wear bold-colorful advertisements to widening
perimeters, especially for one with no boundaries,
sexually speaking, of course, not morally or politically.
And logo’d button down polos reek conservative bean
counter, occupation-ally bound to count kisses, time and
orgasms, sans deductions for the unholy of holies among the
fiscally, vaginally vigilant.
And there I was, a raven, coated and shiny like wet ink newly
splotched on your parchment paper computer screen, dark
and waiting to be lit, turned and transformed beyond the
shadowy picture created in your imagination, confessions
and slick-wicked liquid words sliding thick viscous
through your keyboard fingers, just like we wrote, painted
pictures in sentences spelling out, enumerating, if you
will, voracious mimicry, want and want some more, only not
wanting all that just can’t have, not then, not now, but
something else arose, grew from our impossibility, your
straight laces strung tightly, fronting the devilry in your
daydreams, drooly lasciviousness set free, not freely given.
Yeah, we really did it for each other, whatever it was that
needed doing, and still do to both no one’s and yet everyone’s
surprise, including us who love so much so little of the
time, no time all the time, we who live separate lives
lived in broad daylight secrecy, while we storybook
pieces and patches of once upon a time we were other
people than we are and were then who could be us now.
You often ask, “Who knew you’d still be around?” And
“How could I have known? I didn’t see you coming.”
No, we didn’t see each other coming but we sure do now.
“I adore looking down at his face, his mouth and chin wet with my pussy,” she sighs.
An unmistakeable internal wince triggers the 20-second rapid-fire movie reel of analysis playing before my mind’s eye:
“Why the discomfort at glimpsing a peek into her fucking? It’s not like I’m intruding. Certainly I have outgrown my culturally infused hang-ups about nudity and pleasure long characterized as pornographic guilt sources. And the word “pussy” ceased to make me bristle decades ago, ” I muse.
She and I confess daily details hidden from the public in the corners and crevices of our lives each week for years now. “From whence does this auto-shame come?” I hear a feigned British accent ask inside my head.
I watch her circle her hollow straw round the inside of the half empty mocha blended drink she seemingly speaks into. Her fingers are long, delicate and deceptively thin for how strong they are. I have seen them finger guitar frets and forcefully rip out knotted laces of a five year old’s shoes with ease. And her lips belong to a much younger woman, half her age, the way they remain stained pink-naked like the color of her fingertips after strumming that guitar.
The rolling analysis halts at the sound of her voice.
“But he still can’t make me cum.”
Shaking my head, “After all these years…?”
“I know, right? You would think he could figure it out. Of course I don’t give him much help finding his way. I give hints like it’s some sort of treasure hunt or game of you’re-getting-warmer…put your finger here, circle like this, now move here… but I lose interest when the whole lesson becomes teachy and disruptive to the flow. I prefer to masturbate for cumming and leave the loving to him.”
“Hmmm…” I intone. Funny how we parcel the sides of ourselves out like that, almost a division of labor delegation to those who specialize according to training and capability. Who is more trained at knowing a body than its long-exploring owner? And it’s far greater, multiply abundant, to love physically with another than alone.
“How ’bout dem Ducks,” she mocks, and we’re off to more surface ground.
“I’d say that the more a person is engaged with sexual activity as an open-ended adventure in which to explore sensory possibilities, the easier it will be to become orgasmic via nipple and breast stimulation,” says Queen. “The first step may simply be knowing that it’s possible.”
Alternet’s short article on “nipplegasms”(orgasms attained through nipple stimulation alone) not only explores this more-popular-than-you-think pleasure vehicle but confirms some simply comforting observations about self-framed sexual perceptions. The writer lays bare the facts (haha) that orgasms by nipple stimulation happens typically to those open to it. And those who are not, generally don’t have them:
Sexologist Carol Queen suspects those who have are likely armed with two specific skills: the ability to get very aroused and the willingness to explore sex as a full body practice.
In fact, nipplegasms are the second most common orgasm, according to experts interviewed in this article. Interesting.
Makes sense. The mind-body connection producing orgasm is no secret by now, so the right parts (sensitive or not too sensitive nipples), open attitude and vivid imagination reap the rewards. But not everyone enjoys nipples–or other erotic parts–touched.
The experts agree that cultural, familial and/or relgious perceptions of “right and wrong” sex most probably underpin what gets someone off and what hang-ups prevent orgasms. The author cites those with culturally divergent sexual attitudes as “in the BDSM world, where it is well-accepted that the whole body can be the source of erotic and exciting sensory experiences.”
So, moral of the story: when you consider your body one big sensor ready to be stroked, orgasms may fly from anywhere. And what could be bad about that?
Urban Dictionary’s top definition of a sex goddess:
n. a female who is a deity to mankind in bed. She is so potent at giving and receiving pleasure that she will often leave men enchanted in a helplessly amazed stupor.
“I am a sex goddess,” she proclaims.
“I join the ranks of many.”
She’s right. There have been many. (See Wikipedia)
Prende, goddess of porn
Astghik, goddess of fertility and love
Xochiquetzal, goddess of fertility, beauty, prostitutes, female sexual power, protection of young mothers, pregnancy, childbirth, and women’s crafts
Xochipilli, god of love, art, games, beauty, dance, flowers, maize, fertility, and song
Tlazolteotl, goddess of lust, carnality, sexual misdeeds
Ixcuiname, goddess of the carnality.
Tiacapan, goddess of sexual passion.
Teicu, goddess of sexual appetite.
Tlaco, goddess of sexual longing.
Xocotzin, goddess of sexual desire.
Aizen Myō-ō or Rāgarāja, a deity who transforms worldly lust into spiritual awakening; his red-skinned appearance represents suppressed lust and passion
Astarte, goddess of sexual love, fertility, and warfare
Qetesh, goddess of love, beauty and sex
Áine, Irish goddess of love, summer, wealth and sovereignty
Cliodhna Irish goddess, sometimes identified as a goddess of love and beauty
Yue-Lao, a god of love, who binds two people together with an invisible red string.
Tu Er Shen, a deity who oversees the love between homosexual men.
White Peony (Bai Mudan or Pai Mu-Tan), a goddess who tempts men, especially ascetics.
Wutong Shen, a group of five wanton deities from Southern China. They ravished and possessed beautiful women.
Pan Jinlian or P’an Chin-Lien, goddess of fornication and prostitution
Baimei Shen, Chinese god for prostitution and brothel. On her first assignment with a client, a prostitute was supposed to make sacrifice to him
Han Shn, Sage of Harmony
Shi Dei, Sage of Unity
Qian Keng (Peng Zu), God of health-focused sex.
Nuwa or (Newa), Goddess of the wedding band and wedding jewelry. Represents Heaven and the never ending sexual desire between married couples.
Chuang Mu, Chinese goddess of the bedchamber.She and his husband Chuang Gong look after everything that may happen in the bed room, including sex, sleep, childbirth, etc
King Zhou of Shang, one of worst tyrants in Chinese history. He is known as the god of sodomy
Bes, god of music, dance, and sexual pleasure
Hathor, goddess of the sky, love, beauty, and music
Bastet, goddess of felines, love, sexuality, protection, perfume, beauty, and dance
Min, god of sexuality, reproduction, love, and sexual pleasure
Albina, goddess of the dawn and protector of ill-fated lovers
Turan, goddess of love and vitality
Aphrodite, goddess of love, sexuality and beauty
Anteros, god of requited love
Demeter, Goddess of agriculture and fertility but also of motherly love & unconditional love.
Eros, god of love and sexual desire
Himeros, god of sexual desire
Hedylogos, god of sweet talk and flattery.
Hermaphroditus, god of hermaphrodites and of effeminate men.
Hymen, god of weddings and wedding songs
Pothos, god of sexual longing, yearning and desire
Ganymede, sometimes identified as the god of homosexual love
Narcissus, god of self-love and Vanity
Peitho, personification of persuasion and seduction
Pan, god of the wild, shepherds and flocks, nature, hunting and rustic music, and companion of the nymphs, also associated with sexuality and fertility. Famous for his sexual powers and is often depicted with an erect phallus. Diogenes of Sinope, speaking in jest, related a myth of Pan learning masturbation from his father, Hermes, and teaching the habit to shepherds. Pan’s greatest conquest was that of the moon goddess Selene. He accomplished this by wrapping himself in a sheepskin to hide his hairy black goat form, and drew her down from the sky into the forest where he seduced her.
Philotes (mythology), either Goddess of Affection or a Daimon of sexual intercourse.
Kurupi, god of sexuality and fertility
Kama (left) with Rati on a temple wall of Chennakesava Temple, Belur.
Kamadeva or Madan or Kama , god of love and sexuality
Rati, goddess of passion and lust, wife of Kamadeva
Parvati, the goddess of love, devotion and fertility
Milda, goddess of love and freedom
Enzo, god of love and stress
Inanna or Ishtar, goddess of sexual love, fertility, and warfare
Nanaya, goddess personifying voluptuousness and sensuality
Qandisa, Jinn (ghost) who first seduces men then drives them insane
Norse and Germanic mythology
Freya, goddess associated with love, beauty, magic, shamanism, seiðr, sacrifice, war, death, and sexuality.
Freyr, worshipped as a phallic fertility god, he was said to “[bestow] peace and pleasure on mortals”
Frigg, goddess of marriage, married women, household duty, and divination.
Sjöfn, goddess associated with love
Venus, the Roman equivalent of the Greek goddess Aphrodite
Cupid, the Roman equivalent of the Greek god Eros
Suadela, the Roman equivalent of the Greek goddess Peitho
Dogoda, Polish spirit of the west wind, associated with love and gentleness
Dzydzilelya, Polish goddess of love and marriage and of sexuality and fertility
Lada, fakeloric goddess of harmony, merriment, youth, love and beauty
Siebog, god of love and marriage
Živa, goddess of love and fertility
Baron La Croix, god of the dead and sexuality
Baron Samedi, god of the dead, sex and resurrection
Erzulie Freda Dahomey, god of love, beauty, jewelry, dancing, luxury, and flowers
Mami Wata, a pantheon of water deities sometimes associated with love and lust
Oshun, goddess of love, intimacy, beauty, wealth and diplomacy
Yemoja, mother goddess of the oceans, fertility, prosperity, peace, and protection
That trip, a peculiar humid mixture of venality–yoga and sexting–changed my life. I left some part of my former self in Costa Rica. I felt amputated, as if a piece of me was missing when I returned. This haunting continued for many months afterward, a sensation like I never left the Carribbean, where I spent four days detoxing the poisons of a lifetime of accumulated dissonance: misdirected dives into careers and relationships that formed an image I believed I was–not who I was.
On the fifth day, I descended from the jungle bungalow where I lay hammocked asleep with a book on my lap, recovering from four yoga classes a day: sun rise, late morning, late afternoon and late evening. Only on that day, my fiftieth birthday, after a morning yoga session spent weeping to the chant inside my head: “Where have you been? Where are you going?” did I go to the tiny boat village to dine at a local restaurant and wade in the clear waters of a native beach. Only then did I join the rest of the sea hut world layered along the shore, leaving behind the longing lover living in my phone, the headphones of seclusion, and the drowning jungle chorus of howling monkeys, cicadas and neon frog-lets.
The colors of the rain forest in phosphorescence glittering on the wings of giant blue butterflies or on the backs of lightning flash lizards delighted me as much as the colors of flesh, lips, hips and hair of lovemaking in my imagination. On a life-shift trip, I turned around.
I don’t care for the truth.
What pleases an eye
derives within and through
adoration, love, fondness and
gratitude painting its source
winsome hominey hues.
beauty lives outside,
objectified cultural cues,
like Adonis or Loren,
Farung, Omar or Denzell,
and, of course, Marilyn,
but whose standards sway?
No matter the cause, we
seek her, the alluring sashay
across our sensual, our pang
to be her, stare-slaught subject,
all gazed heat into the kiln
of beauty’s claim–fleeting
hypnotic charm–elite, select.
Common, I carry no beau bearing,
not even in my own way; yes
your hunger draws me sublime–
bony feast: scent, moan and caress.
Be my bittersweet,
my never have,
never and always want to have fantasy.
Be the ever longing up my sleeve
to pull out on a rainy day
when love is dried up, wasted and wanting.
Be my can’t be,
my dying to keep and ready to lose everything.
Think of me with you,
carry me deep,
breathe my outside in
and draw me near as I do you
however far you are from me.
Dream me by your side upon awakening
and let me lull you to sleep
with my weighty invisibility.
Let my curdling heat linger on your skin,
arouse your thickening drowse
til you darken the conscious keep,
lights out of your mind.
Be my owner,
the idea of us,
on the leash of imagination
impossible to lock and cage
for wishes bait but won’t be bound.
Be my whisper’s discrete,
my here and only now,
for no past is ours but pretend,
no future to go there ever be.
My one true zen love,
be my soft kiss of the hand
that airily slips through mine
like a memory’s warm breath
upon the shadow of my nape.
Be my long lost lover never found
and not a care for caring til it’s gone.
Be the stinging sleight
and the honeyed finger slid in sheets.
Be mine of the moment gone for good.
Be my sweet bitter sweet.