To write sexually charged prose without being accused by sensible people of writing pornography. Sensible people don’t condemn sexual subject matter. It’s just blue. It’s just blue.
Here is a slice of thought with references from James Joyce and Frank Herbert. Your thoughts and comments are welcome.
That thing. That long, hard, supple, pliable, rough, sweet, salty, leaky thing. Yes. You know what I’m talking about. The totality of you. Long or tall, it changes with your orientation. You are pliable, yes. You bend but you retain your integrity. I swoon. I want to engulf. I want to consume. The flavors; raw salted nuts and caramel, umami of mushrooms and earthy earthly delight blooming like fleshy members growing from dark and moist and fecund recesses. Consume. Take in and transform for nourishment. Grow again and I will consume again; hot, creamy, searing juice of Sapho – my lips not stained red but my face turns it with the effort and exertion and the blood rushing to needed places. And what lips? My mind is accelerated past its norm, my thoughts do not speed but become it. I live a satisfied life in a jarring moment of thrusts and convulsions and involuntary contractions of the muscles of the abdominal floor. Pushing out the fluids, spitting them out like a viper and its venom, like a gun and its bullet, like pore and its sweat, a duct and its tear. Gobs of congealed goo, once hot, now tepid, cling to the sparse carpet of your belly. Would that it have found a darker warmer cavern to inhabit. That thing. That long, hard, supple, pliable, rough, sweet, salty, leaky, desirable thing. But no. I eat like Bloom with relish the organs. I wanted more, I got what you gave. Let me taste your tongue’s lubrication, let me feel the brush of your beard against mine. Let me let me please yes. Is that all? It would be hard for you to walk away since you never walked to. Left in silence with my own long, hard, supple, pliable – pliable until next time it might break.
©2016 Stuart Dummit