Writing about sex is like trying to paint a picture of the ocean—
It’s nearly impossible to capture because the sounds, shapes, movements and sensations transform from moment to moment. Our brains don’t have the ability to process the changethat’s happening before our eyes.
The paintings that do embrace the soul of the ocean are those of a paused action in motion, of time standing still, highlighting a wave, a crest or the mating of water and sand.
When we try to devour the vastness of the seas, the spirit is lost in the attempt to grasp the entirety of the landscape. Yet, if we focus on just one part, the frothy surge of the current or the crescendo of a swell, the artist is able to relay his or her vision to others as though they were an eyewitness.
Erotica is my favorite subject to write because it poses the same challenge.
How can I paint with words, the experience of pleasure without losing the essence of making love in the mechanics of the act itself?
I try every day whether in a poem or story form. I encourage you, the reader to try writing about a sexual connection you’ve experienced too.
Don’t worry about being a good writer or a bad writer. Neither exist in my opinion, because when we write from the heart, there’s only the truth of our experience which naturally permeates from the words into the imagination of the reader. Passion can always be felt, whether there is proper punctuation or grammatical correctness.
Give it a try. You’ll be pleasurably surprised.
Want Me Now
by Rebecca Lammersen
Meet me in the kitchen.
Put your hand on my shoulder,
I’ll turn around.
That’s how I know,
You want me now.
I look at you,
But not for long,
My eyes slide shut.
In trust, there is no wrong.
Working your way up there.
Lacing your fingers through my hair.
In my strands,
You harness your hands.
Pull until there’s room,
To land your lips
On the side of the moon.
Just enough so I feel your breath.
Warm and wet,
Leaving a sign across my neck.
You rest to my cheek,
As I begin to seep.
You gasp like I’m your last inhale,
Your sigh dries the damp of the trail.
I cry out,
Sweeping your arm to my back.
You’ve got me.
There’s nothing I lack.
A kiss that floors.
Ya know the kind?
That knocks down doors.
But you don’t.
Instead, you brush your lip right across mine.
Making sure we are aligned.
I know it because you commit,
There’s not a crevice your lips dare to miss.
It burns more,
The more I adore;
You, that is.
Vibration from my thighs to my breasts.
As you slide your fingers up and down my legs.
My stroke to your back,
The anticipation of desire’s attack.
The conversation we have when we stop talking,
Is the closest I feel to you,
Cause true love is stalking.
I crave it.
I save it inside until,
That time when the only words spoken, are still.
All I can hear are the sighs,
The moans of our bond.
A narrative unnecessary,
Cause we are the song.
A lyrical dance that goes on for far too long.
Holding my hand.
Leading me away from this foreign land.
Concerned only with one another,
Each other’s sole lover.
To you, it’s me.
To me, it’s you.
The ultimate servitude.
We walk silently, but not really.
The churning of the impending is reeling.
I face you, hands embracing.
The corners of my shirt you lift,
Looking down, appreciating.
Through the sheath of skin you see,
Me and all I’m meant to be.
My turn, I pull at your sweater.
You help me, smiling.
The awkward attempt to be graceful and sexy,
But this part’s always a little bit rusty.
I cradle your head in my hands,
That’s how our song begins.
We ease the listener’s ear,
As we serenade, careful not to scare.
Cause it can be overwhelming,
Together two lives,
who don’t even understand why.
You place me down like a freshly pressed shirt,
Preserve me like I’m standing, alert.
Your weight on mine,
Suffocating any other time.
Tasting your way down like a five course meal.
Chewing until the eruption of goose bumps appeal.
My softness, you swore I was silk.
Fragile, handle with care.
Not weak, precious cause I’m bare.
You touch where others don’t dare.
One hand on my belly, the other between,
Until you find the release.
Then, I shake.
I feel you too.
I’m the reason,
You’ve come out of your prison.
Kneeling beside the bed as if to pray,
Your hands under my knees,
As I lay.
Lifting them atop your shoulders,
You keep going lower and lower.
Your tongue writes a message with each brush,
Slowly cause you’re in no rush.
There’s a point in every sentence when it’s complete.