he stands upright and naked

Then, when the Gentleman takes you to be his Lady, when he puts on his pyjamas and you put on your nightgown, and he stands upright and naked and then on top of you, don’t ever show you like it. Just imagine that you’re in the parlour, cross-stitching swans and peacocks. If you like it so much you can’t stop yourself, pretend you’ve got stomach cramps. because if you were to moan, the Gentleman would divorce you and, with the name you have and the position you hold, that would be terrible.

Margarita Karapanou – Kassandra and the Wolf, Trans. N.C.Germanacos

making love to a woman

There’s something so soft and sensual about making love to a woman.
The way her legs feel tangled up in your own and how your hands get lost in long, thick hair.
When she’s straddling you, and grinding her weight down on your hips and you feel like you might explode from the feeling.
The heart clenching sensation of skin on oh, so soft skin.
The sensuality of the moment when her nipples brush against your own.
There’s no rush; it isn’t a race to see who can get the other off first.
It is more a marathon than a sprint.
Rather, it’s a dance, where you feel like you could keep spinning and spinning until the world disappears. All that is left is you, and her, and your bodies flush against each other.
Your heart is beating wildly out of your chest and your hands are roaming every inch, never quite satisfied to stay in one place for too long.
Her soft lips are parted, panting from the passion of it all.
Just the sound of it is more than anything that has graced your ears thus far.
You mentally record the noise in your head, knowing you’ll hear it again, but wishing to permanently capture every second of this erogenous experience.
Her skin is flushed and glistening and her eyes are full of lust for you.
All for you.
There is something so soft and sensual about making love to a woman.

Hasslehaas

The pleasure they experience

Anyone who is in love is making love the whole time, even when they’re not. When two bodies meet, it is just the cup overflowing. They can stay together for hours, even days. They begin the dance one day and finish it the next, or – such is the pleasure they experience – they may never finish it. No eleven minutes for them.

Paulo Coelho
Eleven Minutes

Passion

Cheek pressed to cheek, the cool, the hot night-breeze Mingled our hair, our breath, and came and went, As sporting with our passion.

Emma Lazarus
Assurance

Wedge your knee between my thighs

Carry me down into that liquid place again where we meet without talking, even though sometimes we’re talking, where we laugh without making a sound, the punchlines floating off untethered and the corners of your mouth tilting up like commas around some beautiful phrase we don’t have to try to remember. Wedge your knee between my thighs and slip your fingers into me again, let them be glazed with human light and lift them to your lips, let them tell you what they found. I’ll kneel before the sunset of your skin, its pale tone beginning to blush, evenly, every cell inspired to read, pushing toward that ruddiness of purpose, that sigh. My hands will wrap around the tendons of your wrists to hold you here, lowered over me like clouds before a storm, the enormous thunder and then the rain.

Molly Fish
Late Afternoon

Women in Search of Balls, Circa 2009

My girlfriend takes a body-rolling class.
The teacher tells her to practice
10 minutes a night while watching TV.
The book tells her the series of pelvic
exercises will make our love-making —
anyone’s love-making —
everyone’s love-making —
more “pleasurable & intense.”
Who doesn’t want that?

I like the idea of more “pleasurable &
intense” love-making, but I don’t like
the word “love-making.” What’s wrong
with “fucking?” I say. Must we be so
pristine? What’s wrong with a little
good old-fashioned fucking?

But the problem, it turns out, is not
one of nomenclature, but one of supplies:

“We need balls,” she says.

“Since when?”

“Spongy pink balls,” she says.

“Why?”

“For my feet — for my body-rolling,” she says.

“Oh,” I say, feeling sheepish. Of course.

We scour the basement, but as it turns out,
we don’t have any balls — there, or anywhere.
We are a household entirely devoid of balls.
We have a combination lock that we don’t
know the combination for. We have an ID
bracelet, a monkey wrench, a set of old Spy
Tech walkie-talkies, & a cat scratching post
with most of the carpet scratched off—

but no balls.

We have —

but no balls.

So I call up the store, & I say to the man
who answers —

“Sir, could you tell me — do you have
spongy pink balls?”

Click, the receiver goes.

So I call up a different store, & more
cautiously, I say to the woman who answers —

“Perhaps you could help me — I’m looking for a set
of balls — ”

She is quick to intercept me —
“Then why don’t you grow a pair?”

“Don’t hang up — I need balls.”

Click.

“I’m looking to buy some spongy
pink balls — ”

Click.

“It’s for body-rolling. My girlfriend
needs balls — ”

Click.

“We’re going to have to try the Internet,”
she says, so I type in what, according to
Ockham’s Razor, should be the simplest
location: http://www.balls.com

It’s a blog site, but nobody mentions balls —
not where to get them, nothing.

The commentary goes like this:

i love to watch people suck their wieners

i like big wieners

i love to suck wieners all the time

i enjoy watching other people do it too

Want to contribute?
Join or sign in

(Site last accessed by author 7/12/09)

“I think we’re going to have to go to the store,”
I say.

“The real store — out there where the people are?”

“Yes,” I say.

“But I’m in my bathrobe, & I’m sleepy, & it’s Sunday.
Who goes to the store on Sunday to buy balls?”

“Someone who needs them for body-rolling,” I say.

“Are we going to a toy store?”

“I think we should.”

“Is a toy store the best place to buy balls?”

“I think it is.”

“On Sunday?”

“On any day,” I say.

“But won’t it seem creepy — that we don’t have kids,
& are trying to buy balls, just the two of us, without kids,
on a Sunday?”

“Good point,” I say. “We’ll have to buy balls on
Tuesday afternoon.”

She agrees & pours more coffee.
“You can do almost anything on a Tuesday afternoon.”

Julie Marie Wade

for willyce

When i make love to you
i try
with each stroke of my tongue
to say i love you
to tease i love you
to hammer i love you
to melt i love you

& your sounds drift down
oh god!
oh jesus!
and i think –
here it is, some dude’s
getting credit for what
a woman
has done
again.

Pat Parker
(Published in lesbian tide vol. 3 no. 9, may 1974)

between your legs

Love making so rough, so aggressive you feel your pounding heartbeat between your legs.

merge into one

You look at me, from close up you look at me, closer and closer and then we play Cyclops, we look closer and closer at one another and our eyes get larger, they come closer, they merge into one and the two Cyclops’s look at each other, blending as they breathe, our mouths touch and struggle in gentle warmth, biting each other with their lips, barely holding their tongues on their teeth, playing in corners where a heavy air comes and goes with an old perfume and a silence. Then my hands go to sink into your hair, to cherish slowly the depth of your hair while we kiss as if our mouths were filled with flowers or with fish,  with lively movements and dark fragrance. And if we bite each other the pain is sweet, and if we smother each other in a brief and terrible sucking in together of our breaths, that momentary death is beautiful. And there is but one saliva and one flavour of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon on the water.

Julio Cortázar
Hopscotch

to kiss and stroke

Making love in the afternoon is completely different in summer and winter. To begin as the afternoon light is fading, to wake up, warm and heavy, when it is completely dark, to kiss and stroke the shared invisible body, to leave the person you love half asleep while
you go and open wine…

Jeanette Winterson
Why I Adore the Night