—I ALREADY FEEL LIKE DOING IT AGAIN 

 

 

Sex and Art

 

    During foreplay, I hear the voice of an old writing instructor saying, Trust the reader. So, I try wet circles. I loop. I slow-swoop. I knead and flick lightly. It’s glorious, how there is terrain for miles. I write her name in Morse Code across her pelvic bone, tapping with my tongue, sometimes sludging. Elsewhere I nibble and moan. She’s a moist island and I’m thirsty as hell. The toes I swaddle with saliva. The knees knock like unripe pears against my cheeks which bruise easily, though I could use more bruising. There’s not enough oxygen. There’s too much oxygen. I’m all over the place. I’m in some kind of heaven, fighting off delirium, sweat dripping into a navel which I then immediately sample. Her breath slides down like sauna jets turned up high. She smells like jewelry and island leaves, like sugar cane and forever. The air changes its clothes, turns red and schizophrenic, so I draw Picasso’s Blue Period along her thighs, every single painting, even the lost ones. I play Bach across her spinal cord. Vivaldi on her splayed, diving board tongue. Did I mention the miles of terrain? I fly south on a carpet. It’s Eden, flamingos and hibiscus, lagoons pushing up against a sand V that gives out at once. Hours or weeks later, waves crash into glass and the room floods, making a moat of everything as I float and she floats with me