Walls

 

The walls squeezing to lock me out.

Are the same walls crushing my hand in forceful orgasms

The same walls wrapping around my cock so tightly

...I couldn't withdraw myself if I wanted to...

The walls constructing around your soul

Are the same walls begging for me to deliciously demolish

The same walls dripping with sweetened, slippery polish

...paving the way for a new entrance...

Locks weren't made to keep doors shut...

They were invented to give selective access

Hence, the key created in unison.

Hence, the harmony when I insert myself and turn.

Hence, the opening of your walls which prove to be doorways.

The doors opening beyond your control

Are the same doors locking you in your place

The same doors operated by simply embracing the knob

....You could free yourself if you wanted to...

Esoterica: Arousal by Secrets

What are you hiding?

Why are you hiding it?

What would it mean if I were to find it?

How would things change with this new knowledge?

     There's something sexy about a good secret.  Whenever there is an opportunity to dig deeper, to peel at layers, I feel a special arousal. It could be a warped musical number.  A confusing volume of text.  A dense piece of art.  Is it the chance to discover?  Am I in search of something I haven't found yet?  Or just a fan of weird shit?  'Yes' to all three...and a resounding 'yes' to all the questions in between.

     For this reason, I've always been drawn to the occult.  Ciphered symbols...Encrypted information...Hidden messages turn me on.  I've always felt that at the root of the rituals, literature and languages lied a truth worth decoding.

 

Behind The Surrealism

Beneath The Veil

Lies

A confirmation of knowledge I never knew I've always known.

 

      Antonella Arismendi's Gnosis drives this desire home for me.  The model, Yamil Castiglione, draped in code is exposed yet made a mystery.  Looking at this set reminds me of the esoterica of the flesh.  What secrets lie within your erogenous zones?  What fears keep your socks on?  What would happen if I continued after you've said 'stop'?  Arismendi revives the truth that our skin is perhaps the greatest cover-up of all time; who dares to discover the secret therein?

       

Love, Death & Meditation

"It may seem strange to connect these three: love, meditation, death.  It is not!  They are similar experiences.  So if you can enter in one, you can enter into the remaining two."

- Santo Carol Neiman

     She couldn't take it!  The licorice was too strong in the absinthe; it made her face turn inside out.  Handing the cloudy glass to me, her face twists, "You drink it."  Downing the glass, I wasn't crazy about the taste either, but I can't waste anything that costs $100 a bottle.  Besides, absinthe provides more of a trip than a buzz; so...bottoms up.

     Our nude picnics became a fast tradition.  Honey.  Fruit.  Skin.  Cheese.  Feet.  French bread.  Tea.  Although homemade, this experience feels very extravagant.  Miles Davis barely in the background.  Fine art made by her own hands adorning the walls.  Naked limbs casually intertwined.  Conversation sweetly spiced by sudden sighs and moaning.  This moment is a five-star suite of sensations.

     Finishing my own glass after drinking her's, I found her foot to be next.  Then her breast.  Arm pits.  Earlobes.  Bottom lip.  Pussy lips.  Clitoris.  Chugging down her body's juices, my hand wraps around her thighs to give myself better access.  Mango, cantaloupe and her natural fluids harmonize well...the silver platter rattling across the floor offers a tinny percussion...shit.

     Our picnic has been disheveled.  A new banquet has been revealed and I can't take my face from it.  My tongue won't withdraw from its taste.  Breathing becomes secondary.  My nostrils are filled with her full seat.  Breathing becomes occasional...delayed...  My mouth is busy sucking, probing and dancing.  Pulling my head further into her, I love the way she's responding.  Moans, hisses and my gasps harmonize well...my heart rattling in my ribcage offers a cautionary percussion...shit.

     Catching my breath, I could feel the life returning to my lips.  Light headed, my body fights to recover from my betrayal.  Concerned, she looks me into the eyes, "Are you alright?  Say something," her voice is distant. Surveying my level of consciousness, an in-progress dream overlaps the sight of her worried face.  Taking a painful, deep breath...I'm okay.

    

Art by Francois Burgun