Who hasn’t french kissed a corpse…or a body that might as well be one. The rind of intimacy is as inedible as the outside of a coconut, and I am a hungry woman.
In the sexless chamber I find myself trapped in, strapped down to a table with no plastic members or things that vibrate
just restraints and a cute feathery outfit…
everything in the room becomes wet in some way, erotic, humanized, depraved. A pillow, a bean bag chair…
I am undressing the sofa, slowly peeling back the layers silk covering to reveal a soft cotton inside…perfect for a ride.
any hard edge will do. a counter top, sanded smooth and glossed down to a sexy marble.
But this won’t be a manifesto of object humping.
unless the Muse can be considered an object. More often than not, on nights I remain repressed, and untouched there must be a resistance to the dim moon bulb that tugs the Muse and I toward meeting points at the center of the planet.
I have never needed so much to know how hot a friction fire would burn between bodies that got away from each other in their due time.
I want his insatiability inconveniencing me the night before I have to go to work. I want the ripping off of stockings, toes in mouth, pelvis in back when I’m trying to sleep.
I want to wake up to a curious weight on top of me. A question mark dripping with pre-ejaculate, and the drool you might expect from a Pitt-bull over a steak
I want to be a steak, primed and painted in honey, glistening sauce, beloved salt he’d lick off
I want to be dry rubbed until I buck like the cattle that provided the meat.
Muse is a meat eater…while others graze on memories of women from the past…or maybe not women at all
just the mundane, the American lifestyle, the news, the sleep.
I too have a basic need. sometimes I feel unsexed, you know like the opposite of a woman. Like a man is controlling the impulses between thighs not opened often enough
and I suppose that’s okay.
for the single woman. All she’d have to do is go get it.
but I must wait. strapped to a table for my own good.