“If I’m a pagan of the good times,
my lover’s the sunlight,
that looks tasty
that looks plenty
that is hungry work
Good God let me give you my life…”
~”Take Me to Church,” Hozier
It’s time to get sexy.
I’m staring at your sinewy muscles, your smooth skin, your prickly face.
I like the square set of your jaw, how your teeth clench, how you wet your lips, unconsciously, ever so slightly, when you stare back at me. I like your wild, fire-dancing eyes, how they are boring holes into mine. I can see it in your face. Wholly wanton, holy hedonistic excruciating excitement, uncomfortably contained.
You are absolutely ready for me to devour you. Now, there’s a word. Devour. Oh, and I will. But first, I must take in the buffet; I must behold the spicy spread that is your beautiful, bountiful body.
I will nuzzle your neck, leaving the softest, smallest kisses. I will gently exhale into your ears my unbridled whispers of wanting. Dirty talk for a very bad boy. I will use my tongue and my little mouth and my warm breath to make you feel warm too. Your legs will tingle, and you will suddenly feel the need to stretch them out. Yes, limber up mister. It’s going to be a long night. A sacred feast, after all, requires hours of heavenly consumption, with breaks between courses.
I like your delicious bits, your juicy, succulent bones. I plan to savor them for a while.
I will worship your torso, holding your shoulders in my hands. You’ll feel my hair brush against your chest and you will say a silent prayer, into the air, that my tender, loving gifts never end. Then I will settle for a moment, in the well that is your belly. I will listen to your blood rush, like the whir of endless highway traffic, pumping life into the sacred city of your soul.
When I let myself go, your body becomes a wonderland, a sensual playground, a dark magic carnival. When I bring myself back, it is a divine sanctuary, a temple, a mosque, and yes sir, I am on my knees.
Your body—I love it, every inch. Every divot, every groove, every follicle, every rough patch, every weird bump, every freckle. Your body is not perfect, no, but it is my perfect place, my safe haven, my cathedral, my church.
It’s where I go when it rains in the morning. It’s where I like to be on a brilliant, sunny afternoon. It’s my salvation beneath a full moon, inside the deep purple crevices of midnight. It’s the hill I climb, the rock I scale, the summit I reach. It’s the valley I descend into—for devotion and quiet respite.
Your body is where good triumphs over evil and peace prevails. It’s where I receive absolution from my sinful, slightly dirty, but very human ways. For example, I am jealous sometimes. I covet. I eat too much, and I get too damn angry at the world. Your body, lover, is my act of contrition. It’s where I know I’m doing something good and I can be forgiven.
Your body is as slow as Sunday, as busy as Monday. Just like Saturday night, it’s one hell of a party too. It’s a churning windmill, a power drill, and oh, my sweet love, I have more glorious work to do.
Your mind? Your mind is for other things, other moments, daytime things, like fits of loud debate and scrabble-worthy words, and trivia and pages of mundane to-do lists. Right now, it’s your body I want, not your fact-filled head, so take it easy with the talking.
I will massage your pliable pieces, the same way I knead our daily bread. I can’t decide if I want to rise inside you, or if I want you rising inside me instead.
You make me want to get all spiritual and sh*t. I want to get all tantric and centered and tangled up in blue. I want to heal you the way you heal me, enveloped in the rapture, in the love everlasting. I’ll have you speaking in tongues before the night is through.
Mercy, sweet Jesus, hallelujah, amen. I’ll make you feel the elevation, the ascent, the moment you’re born-again.
Because, lover, your body is my church, while mine is a fervent, breathing prayer.
Tonight, we manifest the grace of God’s work, and oh, how I will lay you bare.
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