For so long, I have labored under a kind of twisted faith that my genius could be revealed by being good in bed. Some glimpse could be given to some other, some nameless other, of the poetry, the magic, the exception that I am, was, or longed to be. Sex was revelation, blinding with conversion. This is the myth of Zeus and Danae: this is me arriving in the middle of the night, the door unlocked, the supple contours of a stranger illuminated by a bed stand lamp. They are lifeless, more or less; but my sweat will make them shimmer.
This is not as delusional as it may sound (or is it?--are these dancing lights and shadows the desperate projections of my lonely nights?), I do have a talent, an acumen for passion, a read of where another's edges ignite, the phosphorescent animal that emerges from their skins...sex is a seance, and I am the medium (The catty girls giggle, "Well he certainly isn't an extra large."). Sex is an alchemy... mere mortals contorted, torn open, the gold folded back in incisions, bleeding out the quick silver that beads the shattered diamonds and powdered memory of pearls.
This is not as delusional as it may sound (or is it?--are these dancing lights and shadows the desperate projections of my lonely nights?), I do have a talent, an acumen for passion, a read of where another's edges ignite, the phosphorescent animal that emerges from their skins...sex is a seance, and I am the medium (The catty girls giggle, "Well he certainly isn't an extra large."). Sex is an alchemy... mere mortals contorted, torn open, the gold folded back in incisions, bleeding out the quick silver that beads the shattered diamonds and powdered memory of pearls.
