Good lord how I loathe Valentine’s Day!
Not that I dislike love or lust or the shades in
between. Not at all. It’s that Valentine’s Day is the number one
known murderer of spontaneity.
I really don’t see “Love” as an enshrined day, having much to
do at all with the ways we love and have loved, my Nicimos.
(You are my Nicimos. A word in the language of one of my peoples,
Nicimos, means "lover," or it can mean "my sweetheart," as
in what a man calls a woman or a woman calls a man).
But I digress …. for me you have been about surprises that came
suddenly that I could not anticipate. So quickly that frankly, I panicked at first. Not
the reaction most ascribed to the chicks in most fables.
You are Sensual
surprises that when they appeared, knocked the breath right out of me. You move in slow motion till I can eat every
grain of your senses one by one by atom.
You can’t get much more sensual than that. You are a generous lover.
You are about
Sexual surprises that still make me gasp when I am under and within your hands. I was genuinely disturbed the first time I
saw your naked unsheathed cock. Its
origin is something that arises from out of the uncharted states of nature. To say it is primal and raw is fair, but “wondrous”
and not a little frightening are closer to the truth for me. I
believe in flames I believe in fire, but in many unspeakable ways you emanate that
which gives out in a keening primordial fashion. Uncut.
Raw. You my darling are pure, howling sex with a
capital “S.”
Not surprised many women cannot ignore the unconscious signs
and signals that flare out from under your lightly sheathed masculine form.
And I don’t mean to be blunt, but, I'm not short on
observation of the male form. I know of which I speak ~ this Sexual
Adventuress who at times took her adventuring within a mercantile framework needs
no imagination to feather out her impressions of the male form.
In all these regards you are an arbiter to
the unexpected erotic late blooming of a woman who thought she’d seen
everything, was sure she’d felt everything a woman could.
Of careful thought and surreptitious planning you are King,
of this I’ve no doubt. Your thoughtfulness
sometimes puzzles me as I’ve always thought this kind of kindness to be
pillowed far back beyond reach in the back-most offices of my secret desires.
I love this about you, a mind like a steel trap, and the
smells and nuances others would obliviously trample over, you pick up and press
away in that great big marvellous head of yours. Then on quiet nights you bring them out and
wave their scent before me.
You are mnemonic. Not
many people are that, let alone men.
In thoughtfulness you thrill me. You always have. But I confess that it’s in your spontaneity
where I hear a snatch in glimpse of the true beat beneath your brows. I see what truly beats beneath your
intentions.
I treasure much the unguarded words and the looks you give
me when you meet me face to face.
You were right, you've a face that cannot lie.
I read on it the soft ways you’d twist my body, the way you’d
lift it just high enough through your flame to burn it. Then you take me, phoenix-like from ashes to
breathe through me, and into Us another incarnation of love and of lovers.
Speaking of incarnations, for a girl who likes spontaneity
it’s amusing to consider I have drawn to me one whom my blood says I have
fucked and loved with, probably more than once in lines of time that run to
this, our present.
If I am fortune’s child, I will one day love you again. I will fuck you again. I will breathe you again.
You are
surprises that cannot be anticipated. No
one really needs a box jammed full of costumes for play with you. You carry that box around with you in your
head. And better yet, you’re always
willing to share its contents.
I delight in it that you, yourself, are as surprised as a
child at Christmas when some other thing rises to the top of your box of
treasures. I love to watch your sexual
joy. I love to feel the taut strings of
your feeling in these moments. I love
that you share them with me.
You are your own box of treasures. I don’t
mean to be crude but You are a golden duck who keeps on giving golden
eggs. From out of your mind and your
mouth and your sure body.
You are a golden duck who does not know that He is. You’re fucking Modesty Itself to be honest!
You are the Spontaneity that makes Valentine’s Day a real ‘ho-hummer.’
A blah blah whatever.
I kind of think you've totally ruined Valentine’s Day for
me. What can one measly day possibly hold
that compares to the everyday every week of knowing You?
I dunno but I rather think you bear gifts enough to me. You’ve already given me them in parcels
beyond count. When you read or re-read
all those things on my other blog that bear the print of your cock and your
tenderness par excellence, well, then we both know it to be true.
But for the sake of the day, I lift my glass to you (and all
my other best parts), wishing you a very happy Valentine’s Day, for the day’s
sake. Poor Valentine’s Day, so much
to live up to. It can be but so little You
if it tried.
I just know I'm going to be burrowing into that treasure
trove of your heart and your pants, just like I do, every day.
Sincerely Yours,
@nicimos_
xxx
