Sharing Knowledge Of The Written Word. Forum A dip in my stream

This is the latest in my stream of consciousness essays (Bathing in the Hot Tub of my Mind):

Beginning at her knees, you watch the rippling muscles of

her belly as she strains to lay another and yet another.

Is that a smile on her toothy face, or is that just a grin that is

whet by pure feminine accomplishment ?

Oh, but to understand the female mind, especially when tanked

by the surrounding damp, steamy jungle night. 

The croak of a distant frog may be the only sound to permeate

the pungent dark.

She strains again and she`s finished, this female

crocodile has dropped her last egg and she will rejoin the herd.

---- Eagle Cruagh

Slowhand

I've been awol from the WC lately, mostly because of work commitments, and I just find myself tired and uninspired at the end of the day - too tired to even ponder the S-word; I haven't been writing much poetry lately, because I leave too much of my soul out there on the page, my past, my loves; it isn't that I wan't to hide, but I find that sometimes rather than being cathartic, it plunges me into the depths; I'm not bipolar, but I can really whip myself up into a frenzy, sometimes sexual, other times I just wallow in the misfortunes of my life, and that isn't considerate to my friends;

it's better to stick with sex, that's where I can let myself go, the warm gurgle of an orgasm, the touch, real or imagined of a lover as well as his scent, his taste, his sounds, his warmth - it's infectious - and I feel almost as if I'm flying as I touch on a fantasy, perhaps a fantasy of touch, of taste; I've told you how physical writing is for me, but it does that to me, starting subtly, perhaps while I'm writing about being too busy to visit you, my friends, but then it seduces me, the soft rustle of leaves, a gentle stream, my stream seductively floating me to the white water, the rapids of my fantasies, I think of it, sensation, my breathing becomes shallow, as if I'm on a run, but more like the first touch of a man, a kiss perhaps, but possibly the exploration of his hands, testing me - a test drive? - It could go that way, and I feel warm, too, breathing deeper, hopelessly taken by my mental wandering, I reach out for more, for him, I'm hungry, I'm insatiable, and I want him, my fantasy man - he's no hunk, just an ordinary guy, but he has to be intelligent, he's got to seduce me with his words,

 

he can be quiet, but I've got to see it in his eyes - he knows, he understands, and he wants what I want - and we all know what that is right now - I take a deep breath to slow it down, the slower the better, he must be my Eric Clapton, my slow hand, but no cool hand, I want him hot, hot for me, hot under me - I want him uncomfortable, under my control, in my control, in me, in me in every way, physically and metaphorically, urgent like my lack of punctuation moving faster towards our mutual goal of mutuality of intellectual fulfillment of ecstasy he takes me to orbit past the hydrazine cloud of the destroyed spy satellite but I'm not afraid I'm more dangerous than that he knows he screams it for all to hear while I quietly destroy him there is no other but me and he is mine he ... he ... satisfies me, sates me with his words, the glint in his hazel eyes that mirror mine, and he hasn't even taken off his clothes, yet he inhabits me as I possess him, body and soul, his words, my words, inseparable