(Partialism refers to a sexual interest with an exclusive focus of a specific part of the body.)
I have several friends, of whom I have a plutonic relationship with, who has that feature. I'm referring to the beautiful aspect of them that lures me into stealing every available glance. When she wears sandals, I can't help but quickly survey her toes. Whenever he wears basketball shorts, I wait until they ride up to reveal his gorgeous, muscular thighs. I have no desire to have sex with them, but they are the proud owners of parts I've grown to love. Every chance I get, I take a long, optical gulp of their best quality.
I noticed that I have the tendacy to isolate certain parts of a person from the whole. I'll adore the calves of a man while discarding the rest of his composition. I'll imagine kissing a set of luscious lips while disregarding her face entirely. Am I the only one that does this? Again, I do not wish to pursue a relationship with these friends and strangers. I simply want to clone that part of them and add them to my personal, freaky Frankenstien.
Can I get a witness?
Or am I just a glutton for beautiful pieces?
(On another note, there is a sexy stress that one day I'll get caught staring...if I haven't already)
(1) The top never lock eyes with the bottom
(2) The top never looks at the bottom at all
(3) There is very little contact between the two, other than penetration
(4) The top must be "110%" because he offers nothing but the use of his erection
(5) The bottom is going through the motions, merely day dreaming while his rectum dialates
I love porn for this reason; it either displays the weird hang ups people have or what they're willing to endure for money. In the pictures above, the top's eyes are clearly focused on something else other than the guy he's having sex with. Maybe this is an Enrique Cruz film and he's looking at straight porn to keep an erection. Maybe he's lifting thine eyes on Christ on the cross in some weird kind of mid-sin repentance. I think he's looking at a foreclosure notice tacked on the bed post, nothing keeps your dick harder than hard times.
I never liked the premise that having sex with men makes you gay. There are several instances where men have relations with the same sex while having zero attraction to them; tops and bottoms. I also disagree that bottoms are automatically gay because they're taking it up the rear. It is much easier to suck and take unwanted cock than keeping a mandatory erection.
Sex can be very mechanical; it can be reduced to hip thrusts and blood flow. Sex can be possible without passion, thought or attraction. On that note: look above and see how ugly it is to be motivated by something other than the experience. He thinks he's fooling someone, but it is very obvious.
(Warning: The following is just abstract tangents of thoughts, this is not intended to be informative or entertaining.)
Have you ever felt shattered yet entangled?
Frozen in your tracks while set ablaze?
This surreal confusion keeps me awake at night.
I'm searching for an intersecting point between hundreds of parallel tangents; I know it exists. I've felt it, touched it; I've been blessed with a chance to embrace this collision of everything. I've embraced torture while being worshiped. I've embraced righteousness while being perverse. I've embraced brilliance while being very dark. My hold lasted for only a moment, but I remember it vividly; I've been aimlessly wandering for it since.
This is the pain that comes with being a creative being. Listening for a harmony that explains everything. Browsing for a symbol that exposes the great I AM. Looking for evidence that God is everything and God is nothingness. So I attempt to blend blasphemy with praise...to see what sticks.
These are the late night rants of lucid lunatic. Piecing my thoughts together in the moment of clarity that resides in the space after orgasms and before dreaming. In this space between spilling my seed and sleeping, my ambitions are laid to rest and my brain begins to flicker. The room is swirling yet the world is standing achingly still.
Goodbye reality...Hello dream...
Maybe, one day, I'll introduce you to each other.
I am deeply impressed and inspired by this artist's work. The idea that God sculpted Adam out of sand doesn't seem so far fetched when you view his sculptures. Extremely human, his pieces range from classical to fantasy to religious. I am in awe of this man's gift...
Please visit Philip Hitchcock's website for more of his work:
While, I have been captivated by the look and feel of living skeletal-muscularity, I am excited to see that there is a movement taking place. "Porn for Women" and exhibitionist amateurs are pumping the market with pornography featuring 'real' body types. The fact that it is considered bizzare to see men and women with rolls performing sexual acts, reveals how far removed the mainstream has gotten from reality. Regular people, while the majority of the population, has become the minority of interest.
Thank God for the tides of change, keeping me ever engaged with life. By the end of every age, the gods plummet to the level of peasants. The new kings rise from the ashes of their disenfranchised ancestors. Quite possibly, the plump and round will regain its relation to prosperity and abundance.
I coin this event: The Rise of the Rubenesque
Watch the commercial for yourself...
Tattoos and physical mutilation are amongst the oldest forms of personal expression and identity. Subcultures have used tattoos as a form of self representation; a visual language communicating personality and status. Philips Design examined the growing trend of extreme body adornment like tattoos, piercing, implants and scarring.
The Electronics Tattoo film expresses the visual power of sensitive technology applied to the human body. The film subtly leads the viewer through the simultaneous emotional and aesthetic transformations between two lovers.
The following is an article written for M.A.L.E. It was an invitation to discuss the estranged relationship between black men and their feet. The gentlemen weighed in and I think we found a valid explaination to the great mystery.
I am a big foot hedonist, I love to worship feet and when the praise is reciprocated I lose my mind. I get extensive pedicures just for another chance to have them touched. I truly believe that feet are a great symbol of availability and exposure; thus, I get very turned on when I see men barefoot, wearing sandals or even having their ankles exhibited.
One of life's great mysteries has always been black men and their feet! For some odd reason, they're hidden at every cost. The thought of having them exposed, touched or treated is considered terribly taboo in the black community. Why? Black men's reputations has been tarnished over wearing a pair of sandals in public. (shout out to Jay-Z) I have seen black men walk around pools with their toes bunched up. I have seen thousand degree days and brothas were still rocking Timberlands. Even in the bedroom, some refuse to remove those tacky ass tube socks!
One brother in particular, NudeinDC, wrote a very good comment regarding the matter...
"I don't consider myself as a feet-lover, but still can appreciate the added vulnerability of someone who's barefoot. And yes, sometimes tube socks can have the opposite effect.
Maybe that's the answer though... Maybe brothers feel the same sense of vulnerability and anything coming off as vulnerable is considered too feminine."
It all made sense, black men's relationship with their feet is indicative to his pervading defenses. There is an unwritten code that any sign of vulnerability is strictly prohibited. Smiling, acts of kindness and even wearing sandals can make you a target. Whether the domain is on the streets, the work place or at home, black men have been conditioned to maintain a steely veneer; from head to toe.
In addition, vulnerabilty is considered to be a feminine trait. Enough said. Being raised in a misogynous society, especially in the African American culture, the last thing men want is to be placed in the position of a woman. According to Toddy English, the black man's 'foot shame' develops from having an aversion to all things feminine. Even men with well-maintenanced feet will keep them hidden out of fear that it'll be a confirmation of femininity, to the point of assumptive homosexuality.
"I told a female--online (who never met me)--that I liked wearing sandals. She automatically asked me if I was gay because, and I quote, 'Most straight men don't wear sandals.'"
Fun fact: neurologists have found that the genitals and feet occupy adjacent areas in the somatosensory contex. Thus, the wiring tends to get crossed, resulting in the sexualization of feet. This can explains both foot fetishes and modesty, in the brain, genitials and feet overlap thus sharing the same stimulus. This overlapping also occurs within the social arena, which could explain why its acceptable for woman to display their feet and men it isn't. Woman are encouraged to exhibit their bodies, where men are taught not to. On the other hand, some gay black men that are open with their sexuality have no problem wearing sandals or recieving pedicures.
Overall, I would attribute the veiling of black men's feet to his repression of his feminine side and sexuality. Due to our history and living environments, we are bred to be hard and unwaivering. I think that when black men can embrace their receptive/nurturing side, the foot shame would dissolve. Unless, of course...
"Their feet (the average str8 black man) are CRUSTY and RUSTY! They often have fungus which discolor their toe-nails which they DONT BOTHER TO CUT OR TRIM. Many of them have never removed their cuticles since BIRTH! Wouldn't YOU keep your socks on, too !"
Hand in hand, we entered a place simply known as "The Hot Tubs". Not knowing what to expect, we simply wanted to relax and maybe fool around a bit. After paying for a couple hours, we were sent to room number five. Before entering our assigned room, I noticed the close proximity between the doors going down the hallway.
The room was minimalist at best. A twin sized bed, a shower and the hot tub occupied the same suite, at the rear of the room was a small sauna. Quickly disrobing and showering, we submerge our bodies into the steaming hot water. I feel my feet being massaged, my thumbs kneads circles into the flesh surrounding me. Our natures rises with the temperature.
"Shhh," beneath the pulsating hum of the jets, an undercurrent of piques my interest.
"You gotta be kidding me"
I smile, "Sounds like we've been beat to it," turning the jets off, we hear a couple in the room next door grunting and singing praises. The walls were paper thin, I could hear the rhythmic slapping of their skin, the muffled cries. Hearing them having sex gave me a rock hard erection. I wanted to create music of my own.
Touching each other, I cold feel our neighbor's sexual energy flood our room. Possessed by it, we begin to wildly kiss and grope. Using my fingers skillfully, I suddenly hear a loud scream come from a different direction! A woman from another room takes center stage as her lover apparently, "Fuck! Fuck me hard!" Hearing two different couples going at it overwhelmed me with stimulation. Although they were in different rooms, their rhythms and sounds were in harmony. I felt like we were all in the same room, building off of each other.
Sitting up on the edge of the tub, I soon began to moan as well. The slippery, warmth sliding up and down made me grip the walls. Kicking on leg up, the accessibility was well taken advantage of. Inspired by the symphony of screams and moans, I began to whimper and whine a song of my own. The pitch of voice trembled as my body thoroughly enjoyed what was happening. The tight grip on my inner thighs. The suckling at the tip. I am panting, gasping, sizzling, "Baby...Yes."
Joining the sonic collective, I overheard a deep tenor voice exhale, "Oh God!" Sensually staccato, his low pitch climbed higher as he climaxes. Filling my ears with the sound of his orgasm, I found my palms pressing against temples as I crammed in the last inch. It was my turn the sing the orgasmic chorus...
Walking along the harbor today, I caught a beautiful glimpse of a terrible revelation. In one eyeful, I realized that I am, and has always been, attracted to men that had the qualities from my wishlist. I saw a tall, golden gentleman with beefy, muscular calves and strong thighs and hamstrings. As he jogged past me, his big curly afro waved in the wind. I couldn't keep my neck from turning with him as his gorgeous body blessed my sight. He was everything I wanted and everything I wanted to be. In that instant, I realized that there was a connecting point between lust and envy for me. I was mad at God and praised Him simultaneously. My stomach tied into a knot as an erection unraveled and stood straight up. Goddamn.
Is that why opposites attract? Because the grass is always greener, thus, we date who we wish to be? That may be the case for me. With men, on some instinctive level, I assume I'll become more like them if I hang around them. Maybe I'll be more like them if I touch enough of them, worship enough of them, ingest enough of them. I have discovered that I am seeking another brand of procreation.
Analyzing my attraction to women, I saw the same thing. However, I am attracted to women who have the features I would want to pass on to my children. Paying attention to my thought patterns, I saw that I was calculating the combination of our features.
Does: My Chicken Legs + Her Cankles = Muscular Calves for my son?
Does: My Crooked Teeth + Her Pretty Smile = Straight Teeth for my daughter?
I know that envy and hate typically goes hand and hand, but maybe I have my wires crossed. Does anyone else feel this way?
There are several reason why pornography is so popular and successful. For one, since the beginning of time, people have been fixated on the private parts of other's bodies and life. We're especially piqued towards the beautiful ones; everyone wants to see and measure what's within their garments and witness how it's used. There is a particular reason I believe to be the most pivotal in all sex-related industries; prostitution, massages, toys and so forth. Emotional and Cognitive Sterility.
In pornography, the participants are reduced to the the bare basics. They are driven by desire and their only language is wanton moaning; there is no preliminary or subsequent discussions about the arrangements. There are no expectations or intentions concerning the sexual activity. There is only fucking. On top of seeing beautiful and clean-as-a-whistle models go at it, we also get to enjoy a moment where there is truly no strings attached. We pay to see god and goddess fuck like primitive hedonists.
By no means am I an advocate against porn; I truly love it! But I think some aspects of the glamour goes unnoticed as the average viewer enjoys some quality time with film and Jergens. Sex between two or more people, regardless of understanding, is riddled with unspoken messages, expectations and interpretations. Matter of fact, if you think about it, even masturbation has it's share of messages; there's just less chatter.
But honesty, who wants to deal with the pressure of symbolic strokes; if he jackhammers, does that mean he doesn't care? Who wants to get a headache from translating oral; if she looks me in the eyes, is she looking for approval or something else? When I decide to plant me seed inside of someone, I don't necessarily want my hopes, dreams and devotion to be buried with it. We are forever chasing the perfect scenario where sex is just sex...Primal...Passionate...Pleasurable. But are we chasing a phantom?
My personal belief is that sex is our confessional for our frustrations, ambitions and curiosities. My question would be, what does this desire say about our experience with life?
On one hand, we long for mind numbing sex without repercussions because our lives have far too many strings attached. Everything we say, do, think and wear is constantly being translated into assumptions and summuries. "Oh, he drives a Focus." "He dresses like a prep." "He's studying philosophy." No wonder I am driven to have hot, stiff, non-commital sex. I am judged everywhere and in every way.On the other hand, we seek this out because society holds us to our every decision with great vengeance, in spite of our everchanging preferences. We are bombarded with credit ratings, marital law and legally binding contracts. Why bring that same permanence to our boudoir? I, for one, love the opportunity to live in the moment without the risk of it effecting me forever. We engage in sex to drop a heavy load (pardon the pun) not to pick up baggage.
Where am I going with this? I think we should acknowledge this desire we have to be noncommittal at times. When being open and clear about this desired arrangement, we can attract an ideal situation. Freaks of a feather flock together, you could find yourself amongst the gods; who knows? Also with this acknowledgement comes deliverance from unfair judgements and commitments we place on ourselves. With the freedom to be flexible and beyond judgement, the world will follow your lead.
P.S.- Keep it safe, kids.
I love art that reminds me that we are truly God's greatest masterpiece. Russian artist and photographer, Fomkin Konstantine, has a beautiful and intriguing way to showcase both the symmetry and versatility of the human body. Atop the black and white photo of women in yogic positions, he places geometrical shapes and angles over along their flexed joints. He also uses hundreds of perfectly paralleled spirals and frequencies to represent the subtle body's aura and vibrations. Breathtaking.
I love to see the naked body in a context outside of sexual. This set makes it evident that we are wondrous, first and farmost. This collection inspires me to learn yoga and test my body's abilities.
Check out the remainder of his fifty piece collection:
I feel this way whenever I visit the tailor, the barber or get a tattoo. Its something about the attention, being the recipient of a perfectionist's touch. Whenever the barber tilts my head to another angle, have something brushed off my shoulder or get my glasses fitted, I get this rush. I can't explain it, I'm not aroused to the level of erection, but I get tingly and a little lightheaded.
If they knew what I was experiencing, would they continue?
Would I still be aroused if their touch was intentionally sensual?
There is a fetish known as frottuerism; where someone gets off on groping or rubbing against unsuspecting people. I think I may be developing a fetish for the reverse, being touched by the unsuspecting. I think I first felt this when I got my suit tailored for the first time. The older gentleman, of whom I wasn't attracted to, impeccably paid attention to every detail of the contours of my body. He measured my sleeves, shoulders, legs and waist. He tightened the fabric across my chest and pulled the crotch of my pants up, all in the spirit of professionalism. My nerve endings began to sparkle, I could feel the blood rushing to my face; my body was responding in a way I've never felt. I get everything tailored now!
When I receive full body massages or am under the affection of a lover, I get a different sensation. While it is very pleasurable to receive touch in this fashion, I get a different kind of pleasure when the tattooist adjusts my body to get a better angle. Also, I am rarely aroused outside of the typical erection-inducing stimulation. This fixation made it clear to me: I am, in fact, a glutton for attention.
Homevestism: The arousal of a person by wearing clothing appropriate to his or her gender, in comparison with the more widely recognized practices of transvestic fetishism, in which one is aroused by wearing clothing appropriate to the opposite gender.
When I read up on this, I was confused for a moment; how could someone have a fetish for wearing what was appropraite to begin with? Wouldn't that fall under the category of "normal" instead of kink? After reading an essay written by George Zavitzianos, "Homeovestism: Perverse Form of Behaviour Involving the Wearing of Clothes of the Same Sex"; I found myself confused even further. My mind has been chewing on this for week before I saw it.
One day, while channel surfing, I past a video for Mario's "Break Up". Watching Gucci Mane, Mario and Sean Garrett prance around in their thug gear (fitted caps, goudy jewelry, stunner shades and so forth) I had the epiphany I've been waiting for! There are people who overcompensate their gender to a level of perversion; 'Thugs'. In spite of appropriateness, their speech, clothing and behavior matches the gangsta script seamlessly.
I would relate this "thug culture" to the mainstreaming of lingerie. At one point, a woman wearing lingerie was exciting and kinky; then women begin to exhibit these 'secrets' in public to the level that it is now normal to see a woman outside wearing boy shorts. This also explains why many men wear this get up to bed. It becomes a revelation of Victor's secret when this "thug" goes down on you and loves you tender! (LOL)
I want to clarify a bit about what I mean by "thug culture". There was a moment in time that baggy jeans and oversized clothes was a look provided by low-income households. How many of us had to wear hand-me-down from a cousin twice your size? Or had parents that bought bigger clothes, just in case your growth spurt hit before her next check?
Being trendsetters, this look became popular. Because, often times, men wearing this style of garb happened to be the toughest; other men began to duplicate this look as a means to inflate their masculinity. This group of men, men who have never experienced poverty or criminal activity, wearing this idealized brand of manhood would be classified as Homeovestites! This goes for the surburban, trust fund gangsters and the cute little Butterthugs...Yes, Bow Wow, I'm talking to you...
There was a point in my life, where I had a very low opinion of myself. I went days without seeing my reflection, I even showered in the dark. What I understood to be valuable, wasn't present within me. Thank God for awakening! Coming out of the dark cave of low self-esteem, I begin to see the same signs in my friends and family. What I thought to be good ol' fashioned humility and meekness, was actually a posture of shame and unworthiness.
A turning point for myself was a tutorial I received from one of my mentors; Ms. Inya. Her appearance reminded me a lot of Oprah, before the money; but she had this glow about her. Despite being overweight and opposite of our American standard of beauty, she was boisterous and confident. One day, we were meditating and we started to talk about relationships and self-love; she then gave me the secret she has been using for years.
In a country accent, she surprised me, "Sometimes, instead of praying, I'd spend some time in the shower and praise myself."
Confused, I laughed, "What do you mean?"
"You know, sometimes you gotta touch yourself in a way you wish your old man would!"
My eyebrow was touching my hairline, she swats at me, "It ain't that nasty! You don't go straight to the nookie, you gotta love yourself all the way." She proceeded to walk me through what she would say to herself, as she guided us into meditation, she encouraged me to touch myself as well...
Run your fingers over your ear, caressing the lobes: Say aloud to them, 'Thank you, Ears, for hearing.'
Massage your neck, kneading all the muscles: Say to it, 'Thank you, Neck, for holding my head up. Thank you for allowing my head to turn and tilt.'
Slick you fingertips over your eyebrows: Say, 'Thank you, Eyebrows, for showing the world how I feel.'
We continued to get into each body part, no matter how small. I gave praise to my nostrils, scalp, chin, parts of my body I forgot existed, let alone paid any attention to. Hearing myself say these things aloud actually made me feel a little appreciated. She continued...
Massage your hands, palms and fingers: Say 'Thank you, Hands, for holding on.'
Slowly and lovingly, rub your arms up and down: Say 'Thank you, Arms, for reaching out and bringing back'
Later that night, I got home and gave myself a more thorough worship service. I lit candles, played music, everything I'd do to be romantic to someone else. I used oils to massage myself as I came up with several reasons to thank each body part, no matter how small. It was very hard to be naked so long without rushing to masturbate, but deep down, I knew I needed this.
Rubbing oil into the soles of me feet, I said to them, "Thank you, Feet, for bearing the burden of my journey."
Massaging my calves, thighs and hamstrings: "Thank you, Legs, for keeping me mobile, for helping me stand."
Smearing the oil on my stomach, which was a few cans short of a six pack: "Thank you, belly, for digesting my food."
I want to encourage everyone to take a night out to perform this exercise of self love. It has done wonders for my confidence and kept the important issues at the forefront of my mind. There were many days I'd forget and I'd go home and count each beautiful blessing until I was reunited with the truth about myself. I am whole, I am complete, I am perfect the way I am...
Have you ever masturbated to the pornography playing in your head? Beyond anything you've ever seen, you begin to use your imagination to knit together newly constructed arrangements and participants. Before you know it, you've become accustomed to visuals that the pornography industry cannot support. Ultimately, the outside world becomes bland in comparison. This is the darkside of the intelsexual: delving deep into every possible dimension, it becomes hard to settle for only three.
Recently, I have come into contact with several other intelsexuals, people that get off from the psychology and machanics of sexuality. Exchanging our different perspectives on the driving forces of arousal, I started to realize that we are often torn between two paradigms. With the blessing and curse of an analytical nature, I noticed that while the intellectual can see the appeal in everything, nothing actually appeals to him. Through an universal sense of sympathy, the intelsexual can sensually tap into a given sexual scenario, however, in the context of reality, these people are understimulated. The mind seperates from the flesh. Touch becomes trivial. Sensations are dulled.
There is a lighter side to this dichotomy. From my personal experiences, I have realized that simple things like word usage, sweaty palms and preference begin to bear much more meaning. What turns one's temperature up while cooling another's down? What's hiding behind that particular sexual hang up? What will it take to convince you to betray your own code of conduct? When the world reduces to grey matter, there is a signature burst of color within each individual's passions and fears. That becomes an intelsexual's primary source of erotica.
When the flexibilty of flesh has been tested to its limits...Every position and angle has been analyzed and documented...When sex has been intermixed with every concievable emotion; something happens. Several of my peers have expressed an appreciation of the natural randomization of creation. Fingerprints become sexy. Breathing becomes intriguing. I've gotten lost in the pores of my lover's skin.
Beginning to find arousal in everything: does that make you a pervert or born again?
To my great disappointment, these facts become incredibly evident when watching bisexual porn.
Just because you're having sex with both men and women, doesn't mean you're bisexual...it makes you versatile. Nowadays, many men are gay for pay and women has always been great method actresses; what makes a person bisexual is their attraction to both sexes. Thus, straight men allowing other men to perform fellatio on him doesn't make him bi. Gay men willing to perform cunnilingus aren't automatically bi. I hate to use these technical terms, but that's how sterile it feels when I watch it. I feel like the porn stars are just going through the motions. For example: (1) both guy and girl go down on the same dick (2) girl gets penetrated while sucking dick (3) guy fucks chick while sucking dick. It has become porn by number.
I guess what I'm looking for is a true exploration of the possible arrangements. I want the men to be actually interested in the sole woman and worship her like a goddess. I want the woman to be more than a bystander during gay sex and get involved. I want to see all-inclusivity at its best. Otherwise, its just three prostitutes doing a line dance. I could jack off to a Lady Gaga video if that's the case.
Is it blasphemous? Sacrilegious? Forbidden?
The answer is: Yes.
I am close to completing a work that is both monstrous and a masterpiece. I am sure that it will make all that read it feel uncomfortably aroused and passionately confused. Without further ado, I present to you a taste of "The Letters of God". It is a piece of spiritual erotica detailing sexual relations with God. Each chapter is devoted to romanticizing each incarnation of Our Heavenly Father...The Lamb of God...Our Mother Earth...the list goes on.
My purpose of writing this composition isn't to reduce God to the level of flesh, but to exalt ourselves parallel to Its Divinity as well as highlighting the intimacy of The Most Indwelling God. I attempt to explore the different relationships we have developed to this All-Encompassing God...Please comment and tell me what you think...
I met you at the altar of my temple: stomach emptied, trembling; I could sense your thirst for substance. The essence you hungered for was unknown to you; but, once tasted, it could be recognized. On the stair path to my throne, your body peels open before me. A sweet, inviting warmth begins to pour from your spreading availability.
In an odd way, your famine is beautiful; the way your flesh cling tightly to your hips…to your ribcage…to your collarbones. I am aroused by it. Your starvation sends my seed leaping from within my loins to your aid. The way your fingertips cling to your world…to your flesh…to your faith, draws me closer towards you. Your delicate dangling awakens the sleeping giant below.
The broad bridge from my being lengthens to rescue you from the ledge of life.
Crawling closer, your bruised knees melt into each step until your head finds rest in my lap. I stroke the side of your head, grazing your clinching jaw with my fingers. Your hunger heightens. Your voice whimpers. Growing longer, a mere morsel of my nature presses against your lips. Your thirst strengthens. You begin to salivate. My seed prepares itself to spill forth.
Unveiling myself to you, I shed my honorable garment to present my holy flesh. I reveal my hidden places, anointing the air with its aroma. Devouring me with your eyes, the sight of my body proves to be both bitter and savory. You fail to see the similarity. You fail to see the reflection. You find me both beautiful and brutal. Unbeknownst to you, all of this is yours to have…and to become.
Little do you know…
My pleasure serves as a mirror, sending every bit of praise back to the worshiper
Every inch of praise filling your mouth brings satisfaction to your soul
Every drop of nectar wetting my scepter nurtures your flesh and bones
Each generous stroke from your hand returns unto yourself a hundred fold
Losing yourself on your knees will give you the strength to stand
Laying you down as a sacrifice upon my altar, your warmth grows hotter. With tears in your eyes, you invite me into your heart and body. You invite me into your comfort. To become whole, you must first be split apart. In order to be reborn, the angel of destruction crouches between your legs. Lifting your feet towards Heaven, your backside becomes a shade for Hades. Angels gather around us to witness your burning offering.
With the true Tower of Babel, I start to penetrate through your center.
Breaching your flesh, stretching your sensitivities, you begin to mourn and gnash your teeth. Your true nature shines before me as blessings and curses fly from the same tongue. The formless void in your heart sharpens with every thrust, with every strike from my rod. The darkness within you begins to sparkle as I delve deeper into you.
Let there be light!
Before The Kingdom of God, your strength is ignited and magnified. Your true self emerges. Elegant, Exceptional and Ever-Evolving are mere glimpses into the definition of the spirit within you. Your skin becomes coated in splendor as you transform pain into pleasure.
Drunk off the twin spirits of bliss and agony, your moans send ripples through my temple.
Dipping your toes into the firmament above your head, screams, laughter and cries become united. Freedom, bondage and unconsciousness are tangled around your twitching legs. Cymbals clash, trumpets sounds and angels rejoice as my floodgates break open. The seed meant to save nations fills your cup and overflows onto the temple’s floor. The walls tumble down as I begin to bathe you in milk and honey, showering you with the pearls.
In the light of our revelations, my mysteries lie bare against your throbbing truth. Kissing it with My Word, I urge you to take it out into the world. On the verge of exploding, I urge you to love the world as I have loved you in this temple of worship. Go forth, my lover, seek out the weak and hollow.
The E is for Evangelism