I revisited a piece I wrote years ago–Love in the Ether–a tribute to a period of steamy email lust (and amazing disregard of corporate back-up systems. Egads.) Good email is almost a nostalgicism, isn’t it? I have bowed to texting but I’m much too old to find it erotic. Maybe when I come back to this world as a teenaged boy. Oh but by that time text too will be so last whatever.
Driving towards the real world, The minor key strokes my scalp. My pelvis keeps time. I’m the best jukebox in town. This morning my skin was finally sated and I could hear my heart. My chest burns hot and ripe alongside. All night long you seep into my psyche. Lust arcs through shoulder blades, throat [...]
I enjoy this sweet, erotic, love-soaked slant on the fleeting light and last roses of fall. And I’m grateful to you for making me the lover I’ve always wanted to be: received; expansive and cherished. I’m surrounded by fountains of discovery and rediscovery; the source and subject of so much passion.
Listen to his heart’s tongue. You only know your own jealous blood. You’ve been burned and betrayed before—that shows. So now you would stifle all skin—fine or fiery. But now’s time to trust him and your sleek passion.
We would strip away the world and became so vulnerable. These times felt rich and real.