She has a moniker even more Shakespearean than my own. Incredibly feminine, which she is not; indelibly literary which she is. Like the sage progeny of a mad king, she has a feminine grace, strength and calmness. And she came out of hell and madness, took me by the hand and now leads me to the light. Am I smitten? Yes. She swept me off my feet carrying me into oceans of sunlight glistening, green water swirling, her mouth grazing mine, her eyes holding my own desperate stares, and this time I’m not flailing in my needs, my desires, my fantasies, but sensing something else growing between us.
While desperately hoping that this mashed up thing in my chest doesn’t get mangled again, I’m quietly trusting that it probably won’t, and if it does… well… I haven’t respected someone this much for a long time, at least not someone I desired, and maybe somewhere between desire and respect there’s some form of trust. It’s a very odd feeling but a nice one.
How do I write of the textures of our encounters, clambering, clutching, crawling… discovering our insides and edges and fine smooth surfaces? Can I write in colour alone? Without the slow crumplings of velvet, the gossamer of fine threads, the slick of honeyfucking, mango juicing sliding coloured coming? She is the mystery of dark brown corduroy, the musky thrill of black leather, the softness of emerald velvet, the reassuring firmness of polished metal, the warmth of wood. She’s the madness of tangerine pulp, the brilliance of cerulean, the fearful intensity of yellow, the passion of burgundy, pink blushings under our cheeks, caramel wrinkles between our thighs… I’m seeing colour, smelling colour, sensing singing sighing in colour.
Like she says, it’s all good.
Feminism and the Institutions of Intimacy
5 weeks ago