His Hero

Little man,

a sweet smile

inside a beautiful

mind,

drawn by the

quiet love

of his personal

hero.

 

She would go

to the ends of the world

to find inspiration,

keep honing

the sparkle,

sweet glint in his eye

that would suggest

beauty is all I

see when you are with me.

 

Please,

allow her to know

she is elegance

the delight

in his soul

when finding

inspiration,

will she give him

her love,

yes,

always will his

life be the wonder

of her personal dreams

to give him

swift confidence,

sweet innocence,

 

For her love in his eyes

will his wonder live wise.

 

Jane – story # 2

This story is meant for you, and I wish you were out there because everything I say, you will know, and I would be so happy to find you again. Jane is her real name. Story # 1 is a play on words, call it a non sequitur of love.

i met Jane in college. She was this elegant woman who walked across campus alone every day. She walked home from school, I didn’t know where she went once she crossed the street while I stood at the bus stop. She wore green rain boots up to her calves even when it wasn’t rain. She had jeans and a pullover with a waist long jean jacket and a scarf. A stocking cap and a pensive expression carried her past me about a block away every day. One day a friend of mine at the bus stop, said that would be the girl for me, you’re both kind of artsy. I had a lot of respect for my friend so for her to say that to me, I was extremely complimented and happy.

So I began to look for Jane at school, it was a small school, we weren’t too hidden from each other. One day I was in the library and she sat with a magazine directly across from me, and we looked at each nervously for about ten minutes, paging through our magazines having no idea what the contents were. We were just watching each other. She got up in a few minutes and walked into the stacks to study. I stayed in my chair, and realized I needed to ask her out. In a few minutes I walked the stacks found her cubicle and introduced myself. I did actually stumble as I walked up to her – perhaps that helped.

We spent the next six months at her place – her dad worked in town, the house was always hers – we took walks together, and made love in the afternoon sunlight. We never consummated our love making, we did everything we could possibly wish to but didn’t have intercourse. I felt strongly at the time, if we did, I would need to marry her, and I was 21, and scared.

One day we took a walk in a normal part of the wood. We aimed for a meadow we would always find one another in and make love. She was a lot of steps in front of me, so I anticipated her being there – but she wasn’t. When I got there, I noticed she was a couple of blocks away and walking into our local fairgrounds park. I found her in the bleachers crying. She actually said to me words that I would hear twenty years later – Is this all there is – we stayed together though for two more years.

One day we skipped school the entire afternoon. We went to a local car lot and took a brown Volvo wagon for a test drive. The owner was a family friend, so we kept the car for six hours, we made love in it, and we talked about buying it moving to California. We drove around school like we were really something. I won’t forget that day.

We eventually broke up. One afternoon while laying together in her place, I ran my hands along her jeans and said they fit her so well, and she said yeah, she had been wearing them for eight days. I’ve written about those jeans. I’ve written about her. She was my first real love.

We separated and I heard she was going out with another local guy I knew. He was good man, I was happy for her. One of the things we agreed to do was write each other letters. This was long before internet. We’d write a letter and it would take a day or two to get to one another. They were beautiful letters. I still have hers, I hope she has mine. She had a long gravel road to her home from the mail box. She would read my letter on her way back so she could be done before Bill would see the letter. She told me he didn’t like the letters, and she gave me a smiley face to let me know it was ok.

We moved to separate cities – and we continued writing. One day I wrote her a letter and asked her to move to Minneapolis, and she scathed me – ‘how could you possibly think I would just pick up and leave?’ I never wrote her again. I think she wanted me to convince her, and I was too scared. I took it the wrong way. I would have a penchant for misreading signals the rest of my life.

If you can see this Jane, just know my love for you is nostalgic and filled with a sweet romantic memory. I do hope you are well.

Speaking to Silence

6b68c20d-d44b-49bc-b0d1-a463d14b12cd

choose words that would

convey meaning

in eyes when together.

 

questions arise

only in the mind

how to say.

 

did this accentuate

shattered fragments

that remain in a heart

 

might a word possibly

speak to misery

enough for a reader

 

to wonder why

she hears a cry

each morning try

 

today though she knows just where

yet wanders outside into the cold

knowing still … will he always try.

On Writing Erotica

Oh, to find sauce in the sweep of a tongue,

to linger in gasp

might we some way know a path

along his center,

the long and drawn out slide of exploration,

to feel her response,

the sweet touch a nectar of truth

when cradling moans become such wild

release,

not yet we will always say,

trying to find

an edge,

know when she, he,

when they as one

wish us, wish them

find our center together

in such is this our explosive mantra,

the sensuality of the human condition

discovered.

 

Oh it is alluring,

the mind wishes to travel

inside the fantasy

of sin,

a practiced sexuality,

the mystique of woman,

the brazen nature of man,

the combination of some swift surreal

engagement of this

our universal gender driven desire

to offer sweet solace,

sweaty and spent,

in each other’s arms,

legs intertwined,

minds as one.

 

We need the eyes for everything to be real.

When I Opened My Twitter Feed Today

I found the usual – writings, commentaries, notions, desires, wants, reprimands, slams, wishes – every aspect of anything we might desire, hope for, imagine, fantasize. In recent weeks what speaks to me more is the beautiful sensuality of writers speaking from their hearts of loves, passions, needs, imagines.

I realized I want as much as everyone of the writers I follow, and then along with that I realized it is time for me to look at what is real in my own world. I love erotica, I love sensuality, I love the avenues this page and my twitter and other outlets have allowed me the avenue to speak to my own imagined desires. Yet there is something now in the reality of all of this fantasy.

It is difficult for me now to read of a beautiful person’s yearnings because I understand them, but not as much as I once did in the beauty of the moment, the reachable touch of desire inside the realm of drawing a visual of such intrigue. Today that sensuality is alone in my mind, the mystique of which, the yearning leaves me quiet.

I won’t post on Twitter for awhile, in fact, I probably won’t read that often because the majority of my follows are those beautiful artists of erotica and sensuality, and it just brings tears to my eyes because I cannot feel that and I need to not feel that. I have the sense of loss that I cannot fill and with every glance the reminder tells me that perhaps a sabbatical is a good idea.

I think soul-searching sucks sometimes. I understand its value. I realize the need. But in this writing today, it is obvious, I do not yet know where it is I am going. Taking smaller steps, shorter breaths, staying alive.

A Certain Air

Oh one might suggest

yet time,

a knowledge

some would say

her own reveal

design the layout

a lifestyle leaves envious

an anxious onlooker.

 

Yet stop a moment

an aroma

the beauty mix of fresh brew

in java and sweet elegance,

for it is there we discover

hers is strong,

we the onlooker

that glance

blessed by such

is real

is woman

is the constant surround of that which we

perhaps weak male

might give solace

rather than shallow demand.

 

For it is hers

this soft mystique

rightful

hers alone …

yours

silent male

is only that of the

welcome traveler,

a privilege

delicate a flower

bloom.