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The other night my wife and I were discussing ideas for an erotic project,
(We like to share these things, fantasizing and teasing each other, encouraging imagination)
And we got onto the subject of mementos.
What interesting things do we keep to remind us of past love and lust?
A ribbon from her hair, perhaps?
A bottle of perfume left behind that you just can’t bring yourself to throw away?
Perhaps he forgot his sweatshirt in your flat, and you still curl up wearing nothing else on stormy nights, thinking of the way his big warm hands could communicate such strength while touching you so gently.
I love receiving letters, and my favorite mementos from past lovers are those words of love that they have left me, written by hand, often on fancy and decorated stationery. They were written at a time when every syllable of longing was penned with emphatic sincerity, when each adoring word was so spontaneous and heartfelt it transcended truth. The feelings that motivated those love letters have transformed or fallen dormant or ceased, but the truth of that love is still right there in those gushing, enthusiastic, rambunctious words. Those letters have always been a touchstone for my romantic soul when a cruel world threatens to leave me jaded.
My wife read one or two, marvelling with a perfectly arched eyebrow at the fervor and affection I once inspired in the women (and occasional men) I somehow managed to lead astray. She mocks but I know she wishes her first language was English so that she could express herself even half so lustily, so she could give tongue to this, my mother tongue, with just such abandon and glee. That’s when inspiration struck, and she got a wicked gleam in her eye.
“Fuck me,” she said.
“Right now. Put aside these dusty dead letters and take me like an animal.”
With characteristic relish I complied, but she did an unexpected thing:
She took my journal, lying on the bedside table, and she took a pen, and as the lusty animal she so imperiously summoned pushed its blunt snout between slick jungle leaves, questing for that deepest of drinks to quaff its roaring thirst, she began to write.
I could read it over her shoulder:
He wastes no time. I have commanded he transform into a beast and rut with me, and he cannot resist my sorcery. I am picturing myself being mounted by a lion, or perhaps a wild boar or stallion, as I roll onto my knees and thrust my buttocks in the air. My quim quivers in the room’s chill. It makes the heat of him all the more delicious.
I stop reading. What care have animals for the scrawl of man or woman?
She scribbles furiously as I lose myself in her. She pauses often to moan, to writhe beneath me.
I have the feel of this game now… my task is to push her to the brink, to make her gradually lose control of herself and her pen, so that her pleasure is transfered onto the page in the hurried tilt of a line, the lurch of a word, the sudden gap and gasp in the paragraph before continuing with another thought entirely, another description of the sensations she is experiencing.
After a time, when she has written a generous mess of pages, we come together, the slippery friction of our sweaty bodies too much to bear any longer. The waves of ecstasy deposit us dripping and delirious into the pooling oasis of bedsheets. There we bide a time until our breathing slows.
Later I will read it all; sometime when she is away, and I miss her furiously; when touching myself can’t hope to match the rich reality of her. This thing she has left me is a spontaneous gift, and it moves me in a way I can’t describe. To have her words, her pleasure, spelled out before my eyes, the incredible nearness and now-ness it… this is pure eroticism.
So here is what I propose:
If you have a lover, corner him or her. If not, find one, if only for a night. Offer to go down on your partners if they agree to write about the experience as it happens. Provide the pen and paper (they’re doing us a favor, after all!). Take your time. A half hour to an hour of oral pleasure will give them plenty of opportunity, with lots of pauses to enjoy the moment, to describe it all in glorious, erotic detail. If you like, and it makes sense to you, have your lovers write in the present tense, to intensify the immediacy. You are licking your lips, she is wanton, I am touching you, we make love…
Have your playmates describe, in their own words, the sensations you invoke in them as they feel them. Encourage them to let the writing itself show as much as the words… do they speed up and scribble more as the intensity of the pleasure increases, trying to capture it all? Do they write with more pressure as their muscles spasm, making them squirm? Do the lines wander as their body distracts them with sensations?
Then trade places, and try it again from the other point of view.
And, of course, if you happen to send a copy of these homework assignments my way, I’d be delighted.
*image from internet*