Making Love & Fucking: A Love Poem

When I think of making love. . .

I think of airy lightness, like a dandelion plume floating carelessly in a gentle, warm breeze. Bodies feel like they’re floating above sheets, with skin like wisps of electricity, dancing with light — light from candles, light from sun, light from eyes.

I think of deep, cleansing breaths & the manner in which bodies seem to become enveloped by to those rhythmic exhales, surrendering.

I think of sensuality. Awareness heightened, senses honed, logic suspended. Every touch, kiss, & thrust is perpetually timeless. They go slowly, slowly, slowly against time, not dawdling but idling, lingering, savoring. There is no hurry.

I think of breathless climaxes with smiles on faces, full of relief & love. Blood rushes to meet pleasure spots, warming, engorging.

Making love feels like the luxurious tips of swan feathers; like innate grace with heaps of vulnerability; like goosebumps; like home.

Making love smells like sandalwood; like freshly brewed coffee on a dreary Sunday morning; like your lover’s favorite band t-shirt; like the color purple.

Making love sounds like raindrops dripping onto fallen leaves; like an ee cummings poem; like Imogen Heap’s Between Sheets; like enlightenment.

When I think of fucking. . .

I think of saucy, raw, almost brusque eroticism.

I think of steaming windows & moans that escape the basin of bellies. Fingers grope around flesh searching for an end to latch onto, kneading, wanting. Tongues thrash around mouths never quite satiating their desire.

I think of tangible, voracious lust; of clothes that hang haphazardly from fumbling limbs. There’s franticness in movements, as though time is speeding up & one can barely keep up.

I think of sexual urges that have no filter. Pain mixed with pleasure mixed with pain. Arms & legs on the verge of buckling, held up only by gnawing desire. Prayers sent up to the heavens — thanking, greeting, pleading.

I think of a beautiful kind of agony that appears on faces, with waves of euphoria rushing over damp skin. And then. . . heavy sighs, easeful heartbeats, & deep sleep.

Fucking feels like heat & humidity; like slowly going mad with lechery; like wild romps through dense forests; like an itch begging to be scratched.

Fucking smells like salty sweat; like smoke from a burned out candle; like alcoholic breaths; like copulence, sweet & earthy.

Fucking sounds like heavy bass; like sharp, well-meaning obscenities; like a YES that’s been uttered with total truth; like animals fighting.

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Q: What does making love/fucking feel, smell, sound like to you? Are they polar opposites of each other, or does one seem to trickle into the other?

Paint me a picture.

© 2016 SLL / Fueled by orgasm and fierce self-care