Some People Sext

But really, wouldn’t that just be too easy? -laughs- This may not be safe for work, it’s explicit in some places, and certainly erotic, though never crass, I think. 

The story? I met a woman recently who pretty much matches the definition of a sapiosexual. We’ve been texting and emailing back and forth and met Saturday night for the first time. When we were still in the trading pictures stage of meeting someone online, she invited me to text her in exchange for her pictures and when I did it I made a joke about "bribery" being a genius plan to get a guy to text you. After a while I wanted to see what she looked like in a dress, so I offered her a bribe of my own for one of her bribes. All playfully, of course. I’d make up a poem on the spot, if she’d send a picture. We’ve been playing this game since. One of the poems I sent her the day after we met was borderline erotic and she really liked it. And well, I really like the idea of turning a woman on and keeping her that way, so last night I made it my goal to keep her set to "on" all evening. Note that she lives about an hour and a half away and there’s no way either of us could do anything about it last night.

The following are the poems I sent her. Keep in mind there was some context that helped form them and I wrote each of them in the moment over an evening of conversation that started about 4:30 and ended around 9:00.

My hands, dextrous, agile, strong,

gentle, firm, steady in their caress

are in this moment envious

of my eyes and the gift of vision

granted when the senses 

came into their own.

How my hands long to travel

where my eyes so often linger,

those foreign shores

with their gentle slopes 

to play on their sands

dive deep into their seas.

My hands, cocky, swear
they’ll know those lands

more intimately than sight 

could ever dream.

My hands, confident in their blindness,

are eager to spread across every inch,

wander ‘cross every peak,

down every vale,

and linger in the warmth and shelter

of the deepest, sweetest dark.

My hands, they would say,

could hands speak,

We would know you were your soft cries silent,

never forget your form or face,

know in every arch,

every spasm of taut muscle,

what it takes to transcend you,

to transform your pleasure

into something you’ve yet to taste.

 

And since your thirst is whet

I think I’ll spend a pleasant eve

building the ache across

the desert of distance between us,

my words the sun to heat you,

and you the font I wish to drink of

to quench us both in flames of passions,

drown us deep in the pools of our desire.

For an evening, play a mirage,

dance it before your eyes,

drive it playfully before you

as you follow, your body alight with want,

your lips gasping water to your passion,

and leave you hot, flowing, longing

through these cooling hours of twilight

and leave you when you finally

lay yourself down, soaked, hungry,

wanting.

 

If the wind wakes wildfire,

I’ll a_muse you and let it burn.

let it rage hot across the plain,

let its flame warm us both across the miles

We’ll share the heat in loin and cheek,

flushed with fuel to feed our fires

we’ll burn the candle at both ends

as we shape words in a useless effort

<p style=”margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica”>to rein in the lapping tongues of need

scorching through our heated veins.

Let it burn, let the world burn

in the intensity of your fantasy,

let it be taken lustily by your imagination,

let it be made yours, let it

whet your want for me, wet 

your thighs for me, 

and lead you place you never knew

a flame could burn, let your heat

make magma of stone

as my words ignite you.

 

And I’ll leave you with more of these,

these tiny strings of letters 

sliding their little feet and curves 

in the motions of a tango,

that perfect dance that’s so much more

than mere lead and follow.

It’s where the arch of her back begins,

just a hint, or briefly in a dip.

It’s where the warmth

first begins to spread between her thighs

as he moves her without a single kiss,

without the pawing of adolescent passion

or the hurry of men who think women

merely tools for masturbation.

This is where, fully dressed,

steps become sentences,

dance becomes play, then passion,

then foreplay.

Here is where dance becomes gravity,

desire magnetic, two bodies first circling,

then come together, then

and only then, clothes fall away,

slowly, no rush, her lingerie long ago

soaked through and pointless.

Here is the place he lays her down,

takes her as man is meant to take woman,

where a poem becomes -that- dance

and this time, as they come together,

they cum, together.

 

The storm will gather, condense,

the moisture carried into being

by a current of breath, poetry

imagined whispered into a willing ear.

Pressure builds as climate becomes weather,

as the clear skies and calm day

start to itch beneath the building tension.

Cirrus, those white wisps of fancy,

darken, become cumulus, the thunderhead,

thick with crack of electricity

arcing through a body at rest

become a body impassioned 

and finally she breaks,

the world between her thighs

drenched with the coming of her rain.

And yes, I got her so turned on she offered me "a specific request for [my] bribery". I asked for lingerie. I’m not in a hurry to get her naked. I like to lick my tootsie roll pops all the way down to the center. . .