Eros & Logos: Seduction by the Word

Dearest Larissa,

I am listening to B.B. King's song "Hummingbird," the music carrying me off into imagining us, finally, after exchanging so many acts of correspondence, performing beautiful acts of incarnation, making our words flesh.

The give-and-take of our letters has aroused me, body and soul. Let me meditate more on this beautiful reciprocity we have created between logos and eros, seduction and persuasion.

Desire--even primal sexual desire--can be shaped by words; this is what distinguishes us from the animals; this is what makes possible the erotic. Animals are driven by a scent; their coupling is chemical. Fortunately, humans are not so constrained: our fantasies can inflame desire; our words can seduce us. The longings of love, the licking flames of a fire, the pulpy flesh of a mango, the red curvature of a tulip bulb, a butterfly contentedly opening and closing its wings as it dips into the many-layered infoldings of the rose flower, the bold manliness of the yucca plant in bloom--all of this can whet desire in a woman or a man.

My desires have been whetted by the knowledge that our words have created this beautiful menage a trois: our affair of heart and mind that includes a shared love of the English language as our third partner, a bond that gives free rein for us to pursue eros and all the delights of the life of the mind and imagination.

Confession: The sex that interests me is the sex that combines the erotic and the playful--the sex that makes us feel alive and so thankful that we are not just creatures of biology, driven by scent to reproduce, or just creatures of lust, driven by impulse to fuck fast with no feeling, but creatures of play and curiosity, inspired by the erotic.

The sex I desire is the sex that creates an oasis of pleasure amidst the dryness of routines--a sex that teases the mind as it tests the body--a sex that leaves us topsy-turvy, criss -crossed, head over heels, forgetful of time, mixed up about who did what to whom, lingerie and pillows scattered who knows where, the woman purring in contentment, the pleasure of sex suffusing her body with a radiant joy, and the man worn out, with no spring left in him and with his brains so fucked out, he can only lie there in wordless amazement at the remarkable forces of nature that conspired to give women the blissful capacity for multiple orgasms.

Erotic sex can be like a great jazz combo improvising together, performing a music that transcends the limits of a solo or duet: it can be a man and a woman playing together, taking turns, combining, making music that lasts far beyond midnight as we strum every string of the bass, as we riff up and down our bodies with our tongues, as we finger every key of a woman's body as if it were a saxophone, making her wail and bleat in the orgasmic crescendos of a Charlie Parker hitting over and over again the highest and most soulful notes on his sax.

The moment I long for in the bedroom is the moment when our naked bodies become nude, when fantasy on the verge of realization becomes the most powerful aphrodisiac, when a man begins to kindle all the little fireplaces on a woman's body, getting her so hot that she's more impossible to cool down than a Texas town in August.

My pen has been inflamed by your words that seeded in me from the first a beautiful vision: You are stretched out like a cat in the sunlight before me on a bed, and I approach you like a garden of flowers petal-open for the birds and bees to collect all the nectar, ready for my tongue to taste all the fruit, ready for the unfolding of fantasy into reality.

Somewhere, somehow, sometime I will join you on a bed: My hands will begin to rove, lightly at first, with gliding fingertips, in circles and swirls, above, below, around, between. Then my hands will become firmer, providing a light massage, a fondling, a little pull there, a little petting there, teasing a nipple around and around and around, gently squeezing your bosoms as if testing fruit for ripeness, beginning the caresses that will moisten and swell and part open your sex. Eagerly, my tongue will join my fingers, seeking out your nipples, turning them into sparklers of pleasure--little points of fire. Passionately, I will ignite the womanly fuse that runs like a hot wire from nipple to clit, so that my tongue, flicking on the tip of each nipple, will send little charges of pleasure rippling into your sex, reverberating deep within its walls. Teasingly, before my tongue or tip of a finger touches you down there, your sex will feel as if it has already been licked up and down repeatedly; the clit will be humming; and the most erogenous zone of all--the mind--will be fully engaged in the fulfillment of fantasy. My own desires will then take charge: I will do with you what I will. You body will become my secret, favorite playground. I will love you better than I've ever loved any woman.

Whatever I do and however I do it, I will kindle you up, getting you hot, wet.....bubbling, boiling, swelling, panting, opening, quivering, shuddering, and then surrendering to the most wonderful orgasms of all: like popcorn popping all over inside of you; like a bursting sunrise spreading out its rays over a garden of flowers; like a thousand little wings fluttering inside of you; like a summer thunderstorm with a mix of jagged lightning and thunder claps dispersing the humidity, refreshing the earth, and then clearing into sunshine as beams of light break into rainbows.

Maybe, then, after regaining our breath, I will wet my fingers between your lips and ring your nipples, around and around, as if each bosom was a fine crystal goblet that could be set singing by the circling of moist fingers, making you vibrate down into your stem. Then you would take me cowgirl, riding, riding, riding yourself into the sunrise of a new morning, surfing the curl of your orgasm for as long as you can ride the pipeline, then cascading down, like high waves pounding themselves against the jetty, one after the other, until, finally, you roll up on the beach, exhausted with ecstasy.

So don't fly away, hummingbird. Fly to California. Come visit me here, or I'll fly to you.

Yours,

Sappholoves