Intimate Darkness

Let me see you through my hands and not my eyes. Let me feel the beat of your heart and listen intently as if I were blind. Whisper to me sweetly and tell me with passion that you are mine. Allow me to caress your face and make a wondrous find. Lead me to the places that you want me to be — be my loving guide. Let me taste your most secret places; let me feel the pleasurable spasms of gratification on the tip of my tongue. Give my ears the pleasure of heavy breathing and the utterances of erotic whisperings. Ride my erect hardness with beautiful moans in intimate darkness. After, let us switch positions so I can pull your hair with the pleasure of primal vigor. Say to me loudly, Fuck me harder, so your words can further inspire my erotic fire. Suck my fingers — let me feel the softness of your tongue and lips — then guide those fingers to penetrate and rub the source of your drenched wetness. Tell me in lustful tones to rub and tease the sensitivity of your breasts. Turn around in reverse cowgirl; savor the pleasure of my girth and length. Ride me hard until there is nothing left but echoes of loud release, sweat and deep breaths. Let my hands be my eyes. Let my eyes see true beauty and unrestrained ecstasy. when I am inside you, tell me that you love me. Whisper to me the most lascivious wants of your sexual desires in the privacy of dark intimacy.


Within seconds, love was trampled upon and warmth was forever gone. We were lovers for many nights, but what I sincerely thought we had would never see another dawn. I had shown the depths of my heart that are rarely seen; I had put my cards on the table in sincere and loving transparency. Perhaps, it was blinding beauty, but you deceived me and mercilessly exploited my vulnerability. It was then that Medusa’s gaze was cast upon me in December’s cold and my heart turned to stone. There are no memories left to dwell upon. There are no pictures of you that I tearfully kiss in sweet reminisce. There are no secret hopes of rekindling anything. My heart does not lie to me; there is no wanting. If we crossed each other’s paths, I would keep walking. There are no wondrous dreams of you in a beautiful garden with rose petals perpetually falling. I fall asleep under soft light to keep the darkness from stalking. I do not think of you. I do not miss you. There is indifference. There is nothing.

Beautiful Flower

How sweet the nectar of euphoria that comes from the drenched erogenous flower that first quivers with uninhibited pleasure on the tip of the tongue, then explodes shortly after, in congruence with a concupiscent whisper of — I’m going to cum, babe, suck my clit harder, and fuck me faster with your fingers.

Lili St. Cyr Revisited

1950’s burlesque icon Lili St. Cyr.

Again, Lili St. Cyr interviewed by Mike Wallace, this time remastered and not broken into two fifteen minute segments. In my opinion, her candid answers propelled her to a woman way ahead of her time. In her astute approach to Wallace’s direct style of questioning, I see a woman of both inner and outer beauty, calling out the glaring hypocrisy of her time, while perfectly balancing her own complex inner-conflicts. The fact that she admitted to not liking herself very much was heartbreaking and her sorrow was palpable. The inner strength to say these things in the late 1950’s cannot be overlooked. Her stance on marriage may be a point of contentious dialogue even now in the current day and much more unprejudiced atmosphere of defined relationships and matrimony. She said, “If you love someone and you want to live with them, the moment you decide that, you are married, without any law to say so—” a sentiment I wholeheartedly agree with. As stated in the interview, she wanted to leave her profession but found it hard to do so because of monetary concerns and mounting debt. In the beginning of the broadcast, Wallace states her annual income as $100,000.00 — certainly an amount that would have made her a wealthy woman for her time. Lili was also Marilyn Monroe’s role model; as is documented, Marilyn studied Lili’s dance moves and incorporated much of her signature look into her own personal and professional life. Lily St. Cyr had been arrested several times for “lewd behavior,” most notably in Los Angeles, California, in December of 1947. She was renowned for bubble baths during her famous burlesque performances. The interview:

Every affectionate thought is steeped in the essence of you. Every loving motion, beautifully intentional. Every kiss given, wonderfully sensual. Every word written, sentimental. Every intimate moment, ethereal. Every strand of your hair, essential. Every selfless act, amazingly spiritual. Every whisper uttered, deeply personal. Every sexual position, profoundly passional. Every tear that falls is joyful. Every time we hold each other in silence it is transcendental. Every time we go to sleep together it is peaceful. Every fiber of your being is incredible. Every letter of your utterances are delightful. Every time I tenderly caress your face I feel we’re so inseparable. Every time we divinely commune with each other, we reach another celestial level.

Our Mothers Eyes

It was when we saw our mothers weep that we first knew heartbreak — but who would have known that when we grew older, we would break each others hearts then run to the comfort of our mothers arms; the pain would be no less even if we were directly forewarned. We kissed each other in the winter and held hands in the park when it was warm; we vowed to stay together forever, but forever fell apart. Tears fall on pictures of deceased mothers that can no longer comfort us, but we remember them through our thoughts and through loving words beautifully cursively penned inside of birthday and Christmas cards. We now understand their poignancy. We now fully grasp the extent of their pain through our own agony. We tearfully witnessed our fathers walk out of our lives forever; the sadness in our mothers eyes caused us to hide in dark closets and silently cry. We wept. Yes, because of our mothers hurt, we wept and said silent prayers and kissed our beautiful mothers while they deeply slept.

I Wept

Four walls keep silent the narrative that I utter in whispery tones. I hold onto the remnants of her aura with longing for what was. Gold hoop earrings rest on my nightstand; the brush for which she groomed her hair lay somewhere strewn with long black strands. There was a time when I was not so filled with sentiment — there was a time when anger and indifference were absolutely prominent, but it was that evening that I kissed the place where she slept, and I wept. I unreservedly wept.