Sun ~ Moon ~ Stars

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Sometimes it is mid-day coiled heat, lightning-fire  flaring from center, burning incandescent behind her navel, sun-sear arousal warming her from within. Other times it is a soft crescent glow, her sleep-warm want an unbright illumination gently lighting the cool surrounding dark.

Daylight desire sets fire to her veins, its flames kissing her hot. It is lambent. Lucid. Decalescently golden, it burns unclouded and radiant, outshining all else but the need to bathe in its tender-fierce warmth.

Night-moon arousal is a reflective shimmer, a mirror-glow diffusion of daylight’s burn to gentle-shine effulgence. It is velvet dark and off-white light, jewelcase lining and opalescent luster.

As the sun, she is gravity, her electromagnetic pulsing heat the anacreontic siren song calling from the center of a universe all her own, pulling into her orbit the objects of her desire. As moon, she responds to another’s gravitational pull, providing a guidelight, circling gently erotic, leading above, swimming phosphorescent through desires dark.

 

 

Endless sun
and
forever moon,
she is
a
galaxy.

And when she
e  xp    lod   e s
…*
.*.
..*..
.*
..*
*..
into
a culmination of being,
coming {apart}
in
wild sparks of color
bursting

ember-bright

o
v
e
r

you…

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Voices Carry

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(An audio clip of this post is available, here.)

I carry their voices with me, the ones who have gone, the auricular memory of their once-alive presence brushing over my acoustic meatus like a physical touch, somatosensory fibers vibrating with remembrance of intonations murmured long ago.

My great-grandmother’s voice, once an affection-filled instructor, quietly powerful, permeates my being the way lilac infuses damp spring-sun mornings.  Sublte.  Vibrant.  Soft.  Strong.  Her voice was both fortification and fragility, an equal-parts ovoid reflection of life’s harsh burdens borne and the toll taken by persevering onward.

The memory of her, seated across from me at the farm table, teaching — always teaching; sounding out words, how to pit cherries, why glass breaks, the difference between a jack and a king — talking with me (with me), not as though I was a child but as though I was a person – a person with feelings and ideas and curiosity and creativity – is one I cherish.

It is her forever-young age-cracked voice I hear, reminding me of the way her patience shaped my humanness, when I want to distance myself, to extricate or ‘other’-ise, to shout down or condescend.  And it is her voice you hear, through the gentle force of the words I speak, when I choose instead to engage, to hear for the purpose of understanding, to respond without injunction.

I carry their voices with me, the ones who have left, the echoes of their bell-toll reverberations vibrating through my being, reminding me that amplitude does not equate to omneity, that volume wanes with maturity, that mallet and steel need sometimes only be struck once to sustain the note, but that the music eventually fades.

The joy-filled baritone of my ex’s laughter, once a tympani rumble of thunder that tickled my ear, has fused with the memory of crashing storms that came to electrify the air between us.  I hear his whiskey-poured-over-cracked-ice voice in the retrospective small hours of sweltering summer heat, the recall of his cadence pitched parallel to the rolling quake of lightning-disturbed air.

Timbre.
Tension.

Battles waged in stentorian forcefulness, topics moot, all words forgotten but two.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  And all I had left in me, in the aftermath of damage sustained, was “I know.”

He had walked away long before I decided to leave.  But the fight was gone from my soldier when, as I drove away, the vestiges of pride stitched his tattered words with goodbye.

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Man-struation

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Our soft-sleep morning lounging has given way to lolling explorations of cool hands on sleep-warmed skin.  The sheath of my fingers, lazily shushing in loose-hold up-down strokes, is an untight tease around his cock; its vague constraint is both torment and elixir, and his breath comes fast despite the slowness of my movements.

My deliberateness is born of both habit and caution.  It has only been three days since his most recent prostate biopsy, and although we are past the 24-hr all-clear for sexual activity, the doctor’s warnings hover at the back of both our minds.  His first orgasm, post-procedure, calls for carefulness.

 

There is a possibility of discomfort with orgasm, which I’d prefer to avoid.

There is a possibility of delayed discharge. Not the fun kind, but okay.  I can work with that.

There is also the possibility of blood in his semen.

 

The first time he had a prostate biopsy, we waited well over a week before resuming sexual activity.  I used my hands on him then – though differently than I am now; wet, long, tight urgent strokes bringing him to the brink in a matter of seconds – and his orgasm was a balls-drawn-tight reluctant release, the contraction of his testicles not translating immediately to a spurt of fluid.  Rather, by removing my hands _just_ as he was about to orgasm, his cum was a staunched-flow surge – not so much an eruption as a percolated overflow – draining in a thick-dark fall over his head and down his shaft.

The blood in his semen after his first biopsy was noticeable only in that his seminal fluid was slightly ‘dirty’ looking.  It was not light in color, but neither did it take on the appearance of blood.  It was still, quite obviously, cum.

It is with that past experience in mind that I continue, now.  Moving my hands up and down in accelerated shushes, his breathing increases along with the timing of my loose un-grip until he gives away his can’tholdback with a choked-breath inhalation that catches in his throat.

His drawn-tight contractions begin and I sit back to watch, expecting the same non-transluscent push-surge of delayed-drip cum as happened before…

.

.

.

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