The words they escape me, elude me, confound me as if language itself has refused me, forbidding my entry, casting me out to the wet and the cold and the shadows, banishing me to the silent periphery, coercing this confrontation not with the mind but instead with the body, with the body, with the body, with its meat and its bones and its blood coursing, pounding, with the body, with my body, with its pulse, its rhythm, its yearnings base, primal and erotic, with this body, with this flesh, with this body I thee worship, with this flesh bare, exposed and hungering, with this flesh lusting, with this flesh needing, with this flesh riven, undone, moments from its devastation, with its flesh that weeps, that seeps, that soaks, that fills the room with my sweet, pungent femininity, with this body, with this flesh, with its desire, with its desire violent, lawless, on this night unendurable, with its desire to be opened, to be revealed, to be savoured and devoured by mouth and tongue and hands and glans thick, hard and burning, with its desire to be touched, to be embraced, to be released and then imprisoned, to be at one with a considered, languid sensuality, with its desire for man, for the power only he can bear upon me, with its desire for man, for him, for you, for you to see me, to look down on me, to drown in my gaze as you sink yourself, wrap yourself, find yourself in, around, about me.
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