Fucking the Buddhist Nun
I wandered in here, at her invitation, into this place with no walls, no floor, no ceiling or sky. The buddhist nun, she invited me, although at the time before coming here, I did not know who she was. I had dreamed of here, painting it in my heart a thousand colors, sculpting it in the stone of my mind, tasting it, like sugar dissolving in my gut, but, in all honesty, I was never sure I could find my way here, never walked down that road, or any of the detours.
I must have left my luggage at the door, although I don't recall packing for the trip, and whatever clothes I was wearing when I got here, wore away in what seemed an instant. I am different here. I am stronger, fierce sometimes; the armor of my doubts and fears has melted away; the chain mail I wrought so exquisitely in the course of my life fell away like Puff's scales. I am naked, but I am intrepid.
I lay down, she invites me down. She coos and chants, dances and swirls. She strokes my hair, runs her fingers through it. She is not at all as I imagined at first, not at all the enlightened supplicant. She coos and chants me soft. Then she dances, and pecks at my flesh, like a meth-addicted mourning dove. She ignites me in her passion, she sleeps me in her calm. She tenderizes me with a gentle maul, tills me with unpainted nails, dips me in flour and egg, crumbs me in rye and romano, and sautes me over high heat, in butter and basil, yet I emerge raw. I am just me again. Not the me you know, ............... just me,...... playing and dancing in all my glory.
And then, of all things, I take her. Take her as my own. Take her as my guru, take her as my whore. Tear off her robes, and demand her gifts. And then, she laughs and giggles and smiles, she moans and quivers, and surrenders to me; admits and surrenders to needing me, to desiring me, to lusting for me, to loving me. Her spirit needs me to be all that, and I need her. And we embrace our needs, of the spirit and the flesh. The need is clean, it is original. Here, sinner and saint are the same, just as right and wrong are the same, happy and sad, love and hate and on and off and on and on and on and on. It's all the same in the energetic swirl, just as it started.
And the most amazing thing happened. I looked inside and found that my brain and heart and gut had just melted together in the fire. All functioning properly, offering their parts of the gift, but merged into some sort of giant organ thing, all sharing and creating and being the joy of it all. The fuck is constant, the joy is constant. The fucking joy is constant.
I am drowning with the buddhist nun in holy buddhist water, in my deepest waters and in hers. The swirl of the maelstrom is pulling us down, open to the deep, and I am going to float and dance and swirl and fuck all the way there.
Dripping Wet
I lie, naked and cold on the bathroom floor, as you emerge from the hot shower of loneliness. The steam of this room tickles my skin, goosebumps me, beckons my sweat from within. You drop your orange towel to the floor. Hotter places await your absorption. I rise to greet you. As your face finds the void between shoulder and heart, my fingers entwine in your hair, and invite your waters to drip over all of me. A trickle wraps our joined nipples, a rivulet lakes atop my cock, birthing a new river. Rain dances on my toes as the thunderhead grows, darker and mightier. Flash floods tear down your back finding my fingers dancing in the sacral temple. Your tears tease my tongue as they flow among us, between us, coursing to the salty source. Our waters mingle and merge as sweat droplets, born of my heart, pool and release at the open, breastbone door.
Lay me down, my sweet buddhist nun. Lay me down on the cold bottom. Let the hot and cold melt my ice; calve my icebergs; sever the fractal, crystalline tendrils that bind their release: free them. Watch as the thunderhead rolls o'er the fronds of desire and releases its deluge. Offer your mouth to catch its waters, and dissolve the salt I bring and offer to you. Watch as my leaves turn skyward to absorb you, dancing on the breezes of lust. Feel the unevenness of the winds, surging and ebbing as we moisten in the swirl.
Let your mouth rhumba in the suck, let cunt and tongue tango, let the arch and squirm hip-hop in the ecstasy. Let our waters merge and torrent behind the crumbling dam. Let our waters cascade and erode as they flow down to the abyss, upward to the ether, carrying our heart, and our hearts to the yearning desert. Let waves crash and typhoons rage as our brackish waters reach the welcoming ocean.
We are always here, my love, fucking, joined and unjoined, together and solitary. All the rest will jump in and bathe in our waters. We are always dripping wet.
Last Chants of Buddha
Fuck you hard, love you tender.
Fuck me tender, tend me hard.
The last responsive chant in the temple echoes between us, drumstick mallet pounding tom tom lotus, as we transform, responsively. She, dervishing radiance. I, tempering steel. We dance through the gates, gongs and didgeridoos commanding tempo and tone, her hand following my caress, my hand, firmly at the plunge, taking her to cha cha cha. Behind us, the temple mists and dissipates in our morphing wake, as salty pillars begin to tower in not looking back. We one, two, one, two, three in wanton unison, as then and now become the same. The whitecaps on the dead ahead sea beckon us to their dance floor.
She is the white squall, cycloning toward all of you in the dead calm. I am the ocean dancer, waterspouting with wind and wave, conquering and owning their power in my vacuum eye.
She appears in a moment, destroys in an instant...disappears. I am present at her emergence, the chanting birth, as I too emerge. She is as destined to appear to me as breath. I stand in awe of her raw and immense power, and then, in the same instant, I listen to my heart's delighted giggle. As she rises, she gathers and carries everything in her rogue wave; the beat and downbeat, the roll and roil, the resurrecting gasp and the final drown. All is the same in her rough and tumble. She bears the seeds of everything in her tumult- complements, dissonants, opposites undifferentiated-the slithering and the eel, the quarter note and the augmented fourth, the desired and the needed, the collide and the distant miss, the spark and the extinguish. She craves it all, as she dances and nourishes on roars drawn up from the deep. She craves it all-not just sea, but sky and moon-but crests too low or too high, the surge too frenetic or too fluid. Other times she collapses in the foam of detritus and lonely, repulsed by sandbar or shore, music silent and dischordant.
She resists me, as I leap and dart; tries to bowl me over with sheer force, or swallow me in the crashing fold, as I surf the crest of her tsunami. I push her down and smooth her in the downflow of sheering wind; I launch her skyward, pull her up in the suck of vacuum, or soar her up in the thermal vortex. Her shape and mood are mine to choose, as I lightly fandango along her cheek and neck, delicately draw the funnel cloud tip to her misting spray of tears, or take her into the dead calm of surrender.
I am the ocean dancer, the sashay forward to her backward bend, the fulcrum of her twirl, the hard tending floor for her dance.
