Either everything is sexual, or nothing is. Take this flock of poppies

 

smoke-green stems brandishing buds the size of green plums, swathed

            in a testicular fur. Even those costumed in the burlesque of red crepe

                         petals have cocks under their skirts, powdered with indigo-black pollen,

 

staining everything they touch. Either the whole world is New Orleans

            at 3 a.m. and a saxophone like a drill bit or it’s all clinical sunlight and sad

                         elementary school architecture, circa 1962, no broom closets opening into escape

 

hatches, no cowpokes with globs of sap skewered on hickory sticks. Either

            it’s all New York in 1977, the Pan Am building lit up like a honey hive and erecting

                         itself out of the fog, and one of us is a junkie and one of us is naked under a gold

 

skirt safety pinned at the waist and the material melts in the rain, either Kinky

            is playing the Lone Star and Earth is the women’s john at the tail end of the bar

                         and the stall doors have been blow-torched at the hinges and dragged away

 

by horses, either cunnilingus is an ocean salting every alleyway and lifting

            every veil or the French teacher did not masturbate beneath the desk as he taught

                         the subjunctive, and lightning did not cleave the cherry tree and pleasure

 

its timbers. Either straitjacket, or shock treatment orgasm igniting the dinner theatre,

            the actors cradling and hair-pulling, kissing each other so deep some might call it

                         brain surgery, the wigs slipping, chintz curtains aflame, codpieces bursting

 

into flower, or what’s left is a book of wet matches, my dear,

            and it’s all been for nothing, for didn’t Jesus say you are either

                         with me or against me, from out of his blossom of bloodshot dust?

 

 Diane Seuss

that mass of pussy fur

June 26, 2020

My sweet darling … I do miss you darling one and I want to feel your soft cool face coming out of that mass of pussy fur like I did last night.

Rosamund Grosvenor
Letter to Vita Sackville-West, dated c. 1909.

 

[It is amusing to think that when Vita Sackville-West took up residence in Sissinghurst during 1932, her closest friends believed she had started to live a most chaste and celibate life with her homosexual husband and their two sons – when in fact for the next ten years she shared the tower with her lover, who was, of course, also her sister-in-law, Gwen St Levan.

 

But we shouldn’t be surprised by this. On Vita’s wedding day she had two bridesmaids, one of whom, Rosamund,  she was having an affair with at the time. The other, her new husband’s sister, she would have a long affair with 15 years later.

 

After the war, Vita, even in her 60s, could still amaze and seduce otherwise entirely heterosexual married women, perhaps because she seemed, as Virginia Woolf’s husband Leonard described her, ‘an animal at the height of its powers, a beautiful flower in full bloom’.]

forbidden fruit –

June 21, 2020

Do, PLEASE, eat my forbidden fruit –

Wouldn’t it be wonderful?

Weekly (daily) visits to the cunnilingus salon? Once there you might sit, spread-legged, gossip with your neighbours while one of the male/female attendants administers to your ‘needs’ with their restless, burrowing tongue.

The deep, wet pleasure of oral sex should be readily available to every woman on demand. What could be better than having your vulva licked, and surrendering yourself to infinity – feeling your carnal energy disperse, ultimately, in a humongous squirting orgasm?

Bliss, indeed!

The tongue is so much softer than fingers, it provides such gentle stimulation. To be eaten is to be consumed, to ‘die’ with pleasure, becoming food for another person.

Oh, if only such cunnilingus salons were available now – we must start a world-wide campaign for them. Women Demand Cunnilingus Salons! It is a right, a necessity!

Chloe Thurlow summed it all up in her novel, Katie in Love:

“Cunnilingus is a girl’s best friend. Cunnilingus is life. Everything else is just waiting. An orgasm during cunnilingus turns you into an angel. You grow wings and glimpse paradise.”

Well licked

November 24, 2019

Well licked are you,
your clit, those fleshy lips –
well licked, yes, but bitter as hell.
You twist your arse in a certain way
thrusting against my jaw,
and those lips, like the lips of Harlequin,
part to drown me…

I am a trap inside a trap,
an inhabited inhabitant,
an embraced embrace,
a question in answer to a question.

Wisława Szymborska
The Sky

flexibility exercises help keep us mobile and active –


playing the piano – Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No 2 is one of the most popular and recognisable concertos in the classical repertoire


or practice your violin


Or make love


or drown him in passion


or simply sweep him off his feet


or failing that just go to the beach and sunbathe

opens the pleasure box

July 14, 2019

Eating the peach is a meditation. Your mind empties of all the must dos and should have dones. You are pure being. Your lover’s tongue is the key that turns the lock that opens the pleasure box. Life has few perfect moments; moments of cunnilingus score the highest on the sex blissometer.

Chloe Thurlow
Katie in Love

Sunday Breakfast

July 7, 2019

His nostrils flared and he couldn’t wait any longer. He lifted her bodily, moving her farther up on the bed, placing her head and shoulders against the pillows, and then pushed up her chemise, crawling between her spread thighs and settling to enjoy what he’d found.

There. There she was, her pretty, pretty pink cunny, all coral lips and wispy dark-blond curls. He hiked her trembling legs over his arms, ignoring her gasp of shocked surprise. He glanced up at once and saw wide, wondering eyes gazing back at him. Her gentlemanly first husband had evidently never done this to her.

More fool he.

Then he bent and feasted.

His nose pressed into her mound, inhaling her woman’s scent, his cock grinding hard into the bed, his tongue licking into tart and salt and her.

Oh God, her.

She squealed at his first touch and tried to squirm away, but he held her fast with his hands on her hips. He almost smiled against her tender flesh, his teeth scraping oh so gently. She might be startled, might be outraged and shocked, but she liked it.

Perhaps even loved it- what he was doing to her.

She was moaning now, low in her throat, making little mewling sounds, so erotic and sweet, her hips twitching against his lips, trying to get more. He opened his mouth, covering her, breathing over her. He stiffened his tongue and speared into her as far as he could reach, his jaw aching. She cried out at that and he felt fingers tangling in his hair.

He withdrew his tongue and moved to her clitoris, taking the small bit of flesh gently between his teeth and pulling. She froze, trembling all over, and he could hear her gasping breaths. He opened his mouth and licked her. Softly. Tenderly.

Thoroughly.

And at the same time he shoved two fingers into her, feeling her wet walls contract against his knuckles, smelling the rise of her arousal.

She arched under him, her soft thighs thrashing restlessly, making no sound, but he knew.

He knew.

He curled the fingers inside her and stroked her wet, silky inner walls as he pulled them back.Then he shoved them again into her, hard and firm, repeating the motion as he suckled her clitoris.
She moaned – loud in the quiet room – and pushed against him, and he felt her tremble and suddenly grow wetter. She shuddered helplessly and he was drunk on her release, his cock a heavy, near-painful throb.

He turned his head and kissed the inside of her soft thigh, listening to her pant.

Elizabeth Hoyt
Duke of Desire

Chaos out of you

August 26, 2018