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Peace and Other Stories


Fragments of a Formerly Active Sex Life



Fragments of a Formerly Active Sex Life (excerpt)
by Julian X  /  poetry  /  14 Jul 2007

kissing her with my eyes,

fucking her with my eyes,

caressing her tight ass, lifting her long legs

with my eyes

 

dreaming of a college freshman

wrapped in black latex,

kneeling in black pumps,

young face and eyelashes

trembling, vulnerable

(the sexiest nudity of all),

wanting the security of a soft caress to her chin,

a reassuring look in the eyes

and a dick down the throat.

 

Forget the humping dogs

and predictable pistons:  let sex be

like a jump from one skyscraper to the next,

like a fight for survival,

like the tiger taking his prey's nape in his teeth,

a ritual sacrifice and mad partaking,

a joyous impaling,

crucifixion,

 

pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy,

so soft, astoundingly soft, moist and giving,

incapable of hurting yet giving the greatest pleasure at the slightest touch,

getting fucked, spread, torn open with the slightest effort,

transformed, wrapped around its lover in tight embrace,

so easily enjoyed, willing even its roughest use,

returning even abuse with pleasure,

hairless slits, beautiful gills between the legs,

explosions of rippled pink flesh, lips moist and caressing the cock,

existing to be penetrated, violated, exploited,

a slave to men resting between each woman's legs,

needing only a touch or slide to be activated,

fucked, fucked, fucked,

a massive cock in silhouette, separating her sex,

bearing into her heart,

overruling her person by her biology.

The gates of paradise.

 

a woman's ass, waiting to be grasped,

waiting to be torqued by a hand pressed against the ravine of the spine,

offered up to her lord for partaking

 

Spread your legs and shut the fuck up:

I'll move your body how I want it.

 

shaving b(r)ush

 

my gentle come

pouring forth

all over you

 

It occurs to me that poetry

is uniquely suited to sex:

ephemeral, incapturable,

dancing in the mind

like the delicious phrases

thought and spoken

in ecstasy.

 

her nipples protruding,

sensors on gliding surface,

hovering between the teeth

 

I've probably had lovers sexier than you, dear girl,

and I'll probably have them again.

Stop worrying and feel wanted.

There's no more need for jealousy than to hate God for arbitrariness.

If you want to look sexier, I'll tell you how.

If you want to be a better lover, you can be a better

personal whore, you can care

for my pleasure more than the others.  If you want

to be loved more than them,

care more for me than petty pride,

for my pleasure than who gives it.

Dear girl, with your youthful insecurities,

those limber legs and lithe tight youth

will fade, this peak of beauty that makes

so easy my ecstasy is crumbling even now.

Enjoy it knowing its temporality.

Your will-to-please, in strength and longevity,

counts for more than this:

though your sex appeal will ebb and flow,

slowly retreating from the shore;

the willingness that pleases

in your tongue crawling up my cock,

your lips bulging around with your face so immediate,

this too pleases now, and alone may preserve.

 

If you're going to take a cock in your mouth,

at least do it with some passion.

At least seem like you want, really want, to do it:

after all, it's the antithesis of involuntary.

 

b(r)ushstroke

 

bushwhacked

 

notes for a coherent sexual fantasy

 

the caprice and avarice of your loins

 

that moment when she drops to her knees

before your naked cock, bulging towards her

at the prospect,

a religious ritual of supplication and ecstasy

worship my cock and my pleasure

 

there's something so erotic about a woman crying,

confiding in you alone,

so vulnerable, so trusting

many men have observed this

you may be the nicest guy in the world

but pressed close, her tears on your shoulder,

her breathless gasps raise your cock

until it's hard and wire enough to have its own gravity

 

blond in large collar:  portrait of eroticism

licking milk from a soup bowl

on all fours, a delicious pet

nice tail

 

there's no depression in a man that a fine piece

of willing pussy can't cure

 

hike up her skirt, brush her

panties to the side,

and fuck nothing but the cunt

 

strip her, leaving thigh-highs and gloves

blonde hair and black gloves on pale skin,

nude on the floor

 

you know it's love when

she's hysterical, mad, upset

and your words catch her mind and shift her will

and she makes compliance of furor,

hikes her skirt, leans across the table,

and spreads her legs, just as you asked

 

"He'd rather rape than have a normal sexual encounter"

the psychiatrist testifies about the rapist,

as if the same wasn't true of most men,

as if civilization, fear of others, wasn't what kept men from raping,

as if taking sex wasn't in some way implicit in the act, in penetration,

as if the male body wasn't contoured for invasion,

as if the problem with rape was the common fantasy to do so

instead of the act.

 

… driving through Paris

at night, her soft lips, the throat

a delicious surprise, veering,

one hand tight in her hair, the other

loosely on the wheel, ah! this could make

a good ending to life, her nude tits dangling,

brushing, my moans and the music over

the engine and her saliva, roaring.

We drive in circles for hours and

I think, as I she caresses my balls,

I never want to see her again, and

know she's content when she

swallows number five.

 

b(r)ushing aside the misery

 

What is it, in this coming?

An existential transcendence? or

some crude bodily chemical effect?

Or, rather, the recog. of each in other,

to detriment of none

and enhancement of both?

 

I do not have lovers; I have worshippers.

"Cheating"?  Is this a game?  What you call swindling I call apostasy.

 

She spreads her legs

and there's a heaven between them.

God's eye, cyclopean, in all its sliminess.

 

sex, red in tooth and claw

 

I want you

(to spread your legs)

 

I want to make you mine

(by which I mean that I wish to possess you,

to make you an object which I own

and can therefore use, alter, or dispose of as I want;

by which I endorse slavery and the commodification of humans

and point out, ironically, the fallacies of materialism,

that death and circumstance separate owners from possessions,

that all ownership is illusory, inscribed by civilization)

 

… the vagaries of my bed …

 

… and, shackled to you,

I dream of your limbs around me

as I sublimate with coffee,

as I sublimate with cigarettes.

 

… and the joys of flirtation,

of teasing another into sexual thoughts of you.

I don't even want to fuck her and I want to fuck her.

I suspect, even know we're incompatible

and still I want to get her consent,

to win her desire, and watch it ebb and flow as I

think of wet pussy as we

talk of politics and literature,

even on the phone half a world away.

This constant sexual procurement even of the undesirable.

"She may be fat but I'm glad that she likes me";

her willingness turns me on as her body never could.

 

Gods, how I envy and detest those who can just fuck,

for whom it's as easy as a body and a hole and an orgasm,

a ménage à trois as simple as a G&T.

It's obviously detestable, even disgusting,

this pollution of sacred ritual,

this use of the temple for sideshow carnival.

It's like taking communion from a Cracker Jack box;

it cannot do more than distract from the emptiness,

though the aftermath bathes that void in a million spotlights.

And yet, loving wine and unable to find a classic vintage,

one thinks longingly of lesser bottles

while one knows they'll taste hauntingly, poisonously

  of the form in which they partake.

There's some pleasure, some release just in the orgasm,

  in the mass-market pill of a chemical response,

but if that's all a person really wanted,

he would do better to hump a mule or sheep.

No, there's a pretension of love

that keeps the humpers going back to humans:

a mask, required but too easily forgotten.

How simply satisfied the humpers – what an envious state!

And how sad!:

the vintage they confuse for wine.

 

no, it's the soft lying in bed and the tongue licking for love that I miss …

 

Is this the tyranny of Petrarchanism?

the substitution of good sex, tantric, soul-mingling sex,

bondage and domination as lily pure and beautiful as the most Oriental flower

for ascertainment of God?

And is there a difference?

or does the fact that we'd ask that question beg another

and make disparaging suggestions of our frac age of cture?

Or was Ovid never so Ovidian?

was his verse in its beauty a(n appropriately) middle way,

the other side of the dichotomy being the copulationists,

the gutters, the dogs with genitals they don't deserve

or dare to understand, if they could.

 

Man fucks to penetrate;

man reads to penetrate.

He who is adept at reading gains ecstasy;

He who is adept at fucking gains knowledge.

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Fragments of a Formerly Active Sex Life (excerpt)