making love to a woman

December 20, 2020

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.


I wanted him

November 21, 2020

I wanted him in the bluntest way. I wanted his lips, his hands, his arms. I wanted him the way the ocean wants the shore, constantly reaching and running back. I wanted him the way rain wants to fall, the way the sun wants to shine, the way words want to be read. I wanted him to infinity, to the millionth degree. No amount of rain could douse the fire I had in me for him.


a totally spontaneous act

November 11, 2020

We love making love at night…We don’t plan it…It’s a totally spontaneous act…One of us teases the other – and I particularly love when you reach out, touch me, hold me…You turn my face in your hands and stick your tongue in mouth, and passion takes over!


November 9, 2020

I don’t just want your heart. I want your flesh, your skin and blood and bones, your voice, your thoughts, your pulse and most of all your fingerprints, everywhere.

Isobel Thrilling

Call Me Lover

October 24, 2020

Call me lover
First thing in the morning.
In the clouds
I hear your booming voice
and feel your kisses
rain on my cheek.
In the early sun
The colours brighten
in soft pastels
to rest gently on me.
A blanket of which
I am encapsulated
in this hug of morning light.
He calls me lover,
While I still have closed eyes,
First thing in the morning,
In the gentle stretches
and half dreamed reality of night.
Birds fluttering on my skin
singing sweet songs
of summer to me,
and I’ll sleep in love
another hour or two.
He says good morning,
calls me lover,
to leave me wet with dew.
A sun,
always shining rays
that rise over my body
and then light the day.

Francesca West

Falling in Love

August 4, 2020

I didn’t believe in falling in love
until I fell in and couldn’t get out.
I never even had time to shout –
I lost my footing, lost my nerve,
shot head-over-heels down the endless curve
of the helter-skelter some call lurv.

You’re forty-eight and your hair is thin.
Your polo shirts do not hold mystique
and I am not rich or blonde or chic –
I had no idea it would all begin
with your anxious, apologetic grin
and outstretched hand – but I pulled you in.

It’s dark in here, no sense about –
just soupy songs about me and you
and all the revolting words are true:
I’m in lurv with you and in pain without.
They’ll write on our headstone, not much doubt:
Fell in, silly sods, and couldn’t get out.

Helena Nelson

Clear Night

July 26, 2020

Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.

I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.

And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.

Charles Wright


June 22, 2020

I am still in love with her. Not a day breaks but that I think of her, and when the dogwood turns red in winter I stretch out my hands and imagine her hair. I am in love with her, not a fantasy or a myth or a creature of my own making. Her. A person who is not me.

Jeanette Winterson
The passion

Saw you walking barefoot
taking a long look
at the new moon’s eyelid

later spread
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
asleep but not oblivious
of the unslept unsleeping

Tonight I think
no poetry
will serve

Syntax of rendition:

verb pilots the plane
adverb modifies action

verb force – feeds noun
submerges the subject
noun is choking
verb   disgraced   goes on doing

now diagram the sentence

Adrienne Rich

serves up my heart

March 22, 2020

She walks into my life legs first, a long drink of water in the desert of my thirties. Her shoes are red; her eyes are green. She’s an Italian flag in occupied territory, and I fall for her like Paris. She mixes my metaphors like a martini and serves up my heart tartare. They all do. Every time. They have to. It’s that kind of story.

Catherynne M. Valente
The Bread We Eat in Dreams