A Poet’s Response

The email came through with a quiet ding, no different from any other. And then I began reading. The words that spilled forth left me still, aching, breathless. As some of you know, a while back I asked the men who read my blog for help. In order to complete a story I needed to know what it was like—as a man—to see a woman naked, to have your cock stroked by a gentle female hand and lastly what it’s like to come.

This man, this poet, blended his answer so exquisitely that I couldn’t pull it apart. So I present for you, in its entirety… the response that took my breath away.

I will say up front that I don’t think any man can speak for another, or any person for that matter, in these experiences. I find the effort involved in transforming ecstatic desire and fulfillment through orgasm into language daunting and it seems, in fact, impossible—even as fervently devoted to words as I believe myself to be. However, the desire to try feels spurted with the same feverish compulsion and lust as the idea itself.

To be utterly heightened, alert and throbbing, palpably absorbed by the leading of one’s body, when it is unified to a central aching yearn—a breathless precipice of…
Just touch me
Touch me here
With your glance
Your fingertip
Your tongue, elbow or heel
Brush your bottom against this striving protuberance…
Oh please… please
…or I collapse, deflate, ashamed and embarrassed, hurt—a place that feels helpless, precarious. It’s as if all of one’s identity suddenly channels through one’s veins and fluids, nerves and synapses, cells, and funnels muscularly into the part of you that swells and extends—hoping, oh desperately hoping, for some contact.
So vulnerable this erotic is for connection.
So entire and seething, frenzied and fragile.
When I, as a man, give in to the lead of my body—physiological arousal, I feel at great risk, in need of great mercy.

Here I am!
See my emblem and symbol… my core signage?
I reach toward you—often in spite of myself—biologically inclined by your je ne sais qua.

Should your body lead you as well in response, begin to heat and slicken, wriggle and tremble, and should your face flush, your skin tighten, should we compose some magnetic field and come to draw closer—what remains is the ache and the longing to remain in the realm of contact. To draw out the emerging ecstasy as long as possible and tolerable, without forfeiting joy and release.

So the rest of me steps in—nose and scent, eye and gaze, hands and caress, flesh and proximity, tonguing and tasting—and acts in place of the penis, yearning and representing, swelling and twitching and throbbing.

But first let our contact be full of our senses all over—listening to breath, registering heartbeats, sensing our body’s rhythms and titillating skin. Let me record the morphology of your hot sex from thickening to sweet glistening and the beginning to spread, breasts and nipples, sweat and tongues… to drink and eat, nibble and sample all of you.

We should writhe in the mutual want that comes to seem need.

Then, then….

How to describe the leap from the pinnacle? The utter plummeting surrender and rocketing verve and expression that is orgasm? Whether along your tongue and throat, against the inside of your cheek, deep in your burning soothing vagina or taut puckering behind; slowly stroked to release in the cone of your hand or against hip, between breasts, knees or buttocks, feet or bend of neck…

It feels like the gift of stars spattering night sky
Like the moon rising bulbously, slowly in the nooks and crevice of mountains
Waterfall pounding and pounding and thrusting its substance deep into the sea…
The drown and the swirl
The complement of sparkling and openness
The eruption of the moon drifting from gravity’s hold…

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