“Woman, especially her sexuality, provides the object of endless commentary, description, supposition. But the result of all the telling only deepens the enigma and makes woman’s erotic force something that male storytelling can never quite explain or contain” ~ Peter Brooks
Inspired by elephant journal’s recent articles on femme/femme eroticism (most notably by Lori Ann Lothian and Lyla Cicero), I decided to do my own inquiry into my attractions, both emotionally and carnally, to the female form.
I will not deny that when I see a woman’s shape molded by an elegantly tailored cocktail dress (complete with stilettos), I feel my skin prickle and my mouth water.
I love to bite the soft, peachy flesh of her neck. I love my fingers wrapped up in strawberry-scented hair.
And yes, I love the wet, velvet tang of a woman’s pussy.
No doubt, this is no shocker. I think it would be a rare human indeed who was not physically attracted, in some way, to the feminine form.
And yet, there is more to my story than pure lust.
Yes. I had sexual experiences growing up: playing “Romeo and Juliet” as a pre-pubescent girl, cuddling topless as a teenager, and the usual “makeout-with-your-female-classmates-so-the-boys-think-you-are-cool” in college.
But when I chose, at the ripening age of 28, to give my presence to a woman and ride the undulating fire of her orgasm, I discovered that being with a woman was no experiment or titillating dare: it was one of the most miraculous experiences I’d ever known. It was like God raining on my fingertips. And it was fucking hot.
It confirmed something I’d always suspected but was too ashamed to admit: a woman, surrendered to her orgasm, is undeniably, divinely irresistible.
Was I “in love”? Well, yes—in that moment, when the old hetero-normative patterns faded and I simply said “yes” to what felt right, I can honestly say there was nothing in my world but love—within and without.
That first real experience with a woman opened a door for me. A door of abandonment. A door of disarmament. A door of possibility. A door of love.
Love: that burning teacher who whispers chilling truths.
And love: that gentle wind, which molded and shaped my heart so I became capable of receiving both woman and men into ecstatic embrace.
And love: the magnetizing force between my life partner and me.
A few weeks after my feminine epiphany, I wrote the following poem to capture the holy magic of that night—for to love a woman is to love all that is strange and exquisite about humanity:
To Love a Woman
Her liquescent cries
Inundate the hollow night
And it is here
In the palm if my hand
That the earth’s story
Form the seas
Tickle Her petals
Discovers Her pearl
Alights on Hers
And as the sloop slips under,
Ocean of our Love,
Sweet, salty waves
Ed: Brianna B.
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