The Red Bed


It’s not the emptiness that makes me cave, it’s the cave that makes me empty.
The deep cavern of the woman, the subtle perfume of her sweat, the hard grip of her body against mine.

She isn’t a doll or a whore or an animal in the span of time I have above her. She’s a sacred vessel and a goddess and the first creature on Earth when I am in her, on her, tasting her…

She is something to be savored and devoured bit by bit, muscle by muscle, fluid by fluid.

Her sweetness rolling down her thighs in thick waves.

She is fluid when she is with me, I’m lapping at her delightful intimacy in all my hunger.

My goal is to make her weep, make her heave, make her sigh, guide her into herself and into myself.

She is a rose in my bed. I glide my finger in and unroll her, layer by layer, petal by petal, opening the fragrant flower of her soft skin.

I’m beholden to her – the woman, the woman in me, the woman on me, the women under me – we are discovering our truth, our bodies, our movements, our pleasures…

She is – we are – full of more hue with each passing second.
Gasping, stroking, bucking, rolling. 

We are in the red bed of us.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *