“Sex has become a privilege theme for confession.”
Michel Foucault – The History of Sexuality
I hereby wish to retire from sexual desire.
Sex is a routine,
Sex is founded by brief co-incidental moments of stupidity and is not grounded from the heart’s core –
I cease to feel any metaphysical connection of two souls enticed by the chemistry packaged within their depths, gliding around the artistry of spiritual passion and endless pleasure.
I admit, my sexual truths are wrapped around psychological myths, which preach that my sexuality is the gist of my ontology;
Weaved into the love-making techniques I read in
Instead of surrendering to the pleasure derived from the art of his fingers finding the path to my w-hole inside.
I am always too concerned about my physical discrepancies, the imperfect way my breasts uncomfortably move and whether I am perfecting everything sis Dolly specifies on how to please MY man.
The sounds I make echo the girl from some porn site I fake filled with the lies we take to dictate each moment of intimacy;
I touch myself then feel guilty
Because I lack the knowledge that to touch myself overflows with aristocratic politics of carrying for myself.
That I should touch myself until I feel my body and soul in consensus as they climb all dynamics of sexual climax to find the source of my erotic stimulation,
I can find my own G-spot, so as to position this man where to find it
I wonder when was the last time I was spiritually aroused;
Unearthed chronicles of my truest sexuality!
I wonder when was the last time I emancipated my mind from the territory of modern sexual slavery and had true sex like an animal,
Palm to palm, kissing him until my tongue was numb and I started to eat the residual crusts and crunches of what he ate for breakfast, lunch and supper,
Not afraid that this could be hygienically flawed.
I cannot recall ever mourning from the feeling of his sperms bursting into my bladder, penetrating my entire body, circling my eggs and transporting me to fertility and then resting against the walls of my inner vagina,
Without worrying that such rawness and barbarism could be fatal,
And that responding to the cries of our bodies will lead us astray
So I will not have sex until the day I am ready to open my legs and receive his entire manhood, as it invades my mind while my nipples become conscious of their tight connection to the rhymes of his heart’s desires, my body transcending to the gods of sexuality, legs bandages around each other, consciousness succumbing to his cum and my tangled pubic hair detecting his DNA.
Until he can give me an orgasm that will travel through each layer of my intelligence, hit my body from the split ends of my hair to the tips of my toes.
Exciting yet explosive like the time I lost my virginity
My soul beside his soul walking to eternity
Only aware of how much I have lost acuity
That he nibbles the corners of my ears
And utters something in a language I have never heard,
Deconstructing the lies we’ve been fed
As I read between the lines on his left hand
Squeezing my curves,
To scratch marks of a sex revolution
As I find my true sexuality