All Hail the Mighty

Ode to the Penis

Resting now against your thigh

looking vulnerable

I bend my neck to gently

nuzzle that velvety softness

calling to me in my slumber.

That warm, firm swallow

of silk and satisfaction

calms the midnight of my yearning

deep and unbearable.

Eyes hungry

for a glance of human art

starving for the ancient.

How I long to rest them

for a while

upon the god of my heart.

Hands that cry

Hallelujah! with every touch,

every stroke

to grasp,

even for a moment

the virile power

that you carry so sensibly

in a pocket

all day.

The play room had a king size bed, one that had just been vacated, proof of which lie in the wet spot that accosted my naked ass without warning. No matter, everything fell out of my head as soon as my legs opened and invited her in. I was swimming in that moment, or rather floating. The heat began to pour off of me and they couldn't help but touch. Intensity was shooting from my toes and out the top of my head, I think I tend to tip my hips and arch my back in an effort to keep some of it from spilling out on to the floor, but I couldn't help it. I leaned my head way back and it just happened to be free from the confines of our playful sex arena and it was then, upside down that I saw him. In a smear of greyness that was barely illuminated, he stood, masturbating as he watched us. Yes, yes, yes...

Weeks later we were lying together enjoying the undressed afternoon in a tussle of blankets and pillows. Loving and being loved at the same time. Smiling to no one in particular our hands went from each other to the familiar surroundings of our own souls. I stared first, stroking, teasing, pinching, fucking myself. I forgot to watch him, to see his reaction and let his eyes feed my hunger. Glancing casually in his direction his eyes were closed and his breathing was heavy, he was busy and almost ready. Yes, yes, yes...

It's no exaggeration to say I love cock. I LOVE cock. If it didn't sound too much like idolatry for my taste I would say I worship the phallus. It's only been recently that I have discovered a true and ravenous appetite for watching men masturbate. When I'm watching them there's such a subtle vulnerability in their form I find it compelling. It makes me travel with them back to those adolescent years of longing and inexperience. Lying in their bed, in their mess of a teen-age boy room, smelling of dirty socks and semen. Imagining myself sliding between the sheets with them, maybe holding that porno magazine they've stared at a million times already, or the underwear model in that catalog they stole from their mom. I can see myself whispering in their ear things they could do and how good, oh so good it feels. Watching them go back to that time as they deftly and precisely handle their package, as if it were a bomb that needed careful diffusing.

Also, for me is the real and sensual visual of them conceptually loving themselves. How you love yourself is at least as important as how you love others, on every level, no? Getting a peek at the way they do it gives me insight into how they like to be touched, the speed the depth, the length of stroke. It's like watching an owner's manual on DVD. "This is how you provide scheduled maintenance..."

Anyway, it's that kind of day. Thinking about all the men in my life, imagining them one by one, lying, sitting, pants down around their ankles, eyes shut tight, whacking away like there's no tomorrow.