A presence. Like a slap…a marker…or points, is a charging, a programing of my particular consciousness, offering a reasonable reward or an invited preadation. Unavailable, the reasoning of adult deliberation or the completion of sight…
This pre-occupation…the body and the equivalent versions of it’s self can make the Other tolerable, that pressure in one place can evoke another. A trace, along the edge…revealing…crease…fold…and split the two. No toe hold to scramble for context. It’s a line, a bruise, that shudders in the middle without precisely knowing what you are looking at. Ultimately ending in the overwhelming sudden grief that your skin feels the moment it is deprived of a piece of something pressing into you, someone leanining up against or tightly confirming your surface, not in a way you have truly been aware of…not like this…this sudden awareness of absence…this skin grief…the absence of evidence not the evidence of absence… just the lack-remainder of what has been negated.
I lick your eyes so that now I have charged your sight.
I lick your nose so that now you will smell what I want you to smell.
I lick my thumb and wipe the dirt from your face.
This infantile need expressed in adult sexuality is the predictive compass of my entirety.
The rest I cannot vouch for.
I have always been driven by the ecstatic and it’s intensity. Recognizable fetish is laughable parody in its commodified re-selling of old symbols. Such symbols can do nothing more than nurture recollections, block possibility, and move desire with false pretense. The erotic is different though, (holding the intangibilities of sexual arousal and excitement), it refuses to flounder in parody, it is subjective, it re-invents fetish one impulse at a time.
“You become part of mine when you do that…do what runs me flush”
That which is stirred in the smell left by my lover’s lips, red puckered skin returning pale, or subtle bruises under proudly dried fluid, tend to this wordless excitement. The drowning vulnerability that grows from honest gut wrenching desire can never be replaced in value or result. We can take our desires and build worlds around them; we can live in the temporality that exists between absolutes and define what we truly find erotic. We can, if we choose too, live in the dizzying moments experienced through raw necessity. We all have our own version of this, and importantly so. The individual expression of these needs runs the risks of humiliation, wounding, and abandonment. Often it’s safer to pretend, to act, to play out. Yet, to vie with the nuances and threats, to live in those oppositions, I know no excitement greater.
“To be 12 feet high and staggering.”