softcore

this is some pretty exciting reading. but as tempting though it may be, and as obvious as it may be, do not seek to breach the veil of anonymity which enables artistic discourse.
I.
She reveals herself only for that moment, before she begins her struggle with the bedclothes to reenter reality. Her modesty is of the true innocent, who has lived her life in the World of surfaces, and she is used to fabric, not flesh, against her body. But that is in the unthinkable future. Now she is the Ideal Body, an attainable Ideal Form that Plato in all his sexlessness could never imagine. The physicality overwhelms me, that flesh could be so smooth.
II.
Her body stretches out beneath me, filling all senses. Her body is brown and my hands are pale. A deep glowing brown that is hers alone, pacifying. Hers is the true tan to which the white world aspires, the skin that is the origin and home of all skin, that we crave to return to. That white women dream of while cocooned in ultraviolet blue radiation. The touchable form of unbleached humanity.
III.
Her body stretches out beneath me, filling a material plane that I float above, immersed in physicality.
IV.
She is alive.
V.
She counts her birthmarks, and gives me a sightseeing tour of her body. She thinks they are what make her body hers. Each one is in the perfect spot, where no human artist would dream of locating them. There is one dark spot in the shape of a tree hollow on her right palm. There is one on the inside curve of her right breast. One above and to the right of her navel. The rest are secret, mine alone.
VI.
Her hair flows like the black waterfall where the thick waters of the Lethe leap off the side of the world to plunge into darkness.
VII.
It flows over her ears, who sit as small kings ruling over a chessboard kingdom. They are tiny, perfectly round disks set in a round clearing. They are guarded on all sides by hair. On the foreground, revealed when she pulls back her hair, her sideburns, begun at the origin of all hair, wispy.
VIII.
I am entirely fixated on her face; that is all that matters. It defies language and has no place upon this page. Here lies the punctum; the personal beauty after which art flies in pursuit, but never reaches.
IX.
Her collarbones erupt from her neck like flying buttresses to support the roundness of her shoulders. All men know that the unifying principle of beauty is the shoulder, especially when revealed from above. This curve foils that of her breasts, creates a nonlinear universe.
X.
Her breasts reveal an atavistic innocence that haunts her personality, and that is why she is never satisfied with them. That innocence, which partly drew me to her, which I have brought to maturity, but not robbed her of. She can never know that it exists: innocence is only named after its departure.
XI.
It as if all the dusk of her skin spreads out from the concentrated deep brown of her nipples.
XII.
Her hipbones write songs against my body, they jut out of her flat stomach like mountains rising out of the valley. They gesture inwards.
XIII.
Hers is the modesty of the world, her vagina shows itself only for the vital moment, like the aperture of a camera, all-seeing. Because it is endless, and perhaps I will be lost among its folds and never find my way out.
XIV.
The surface is a cluster of black wire. It has the strength, the integrity of sandpaper. But it inhales, pulling my writing fingers inward. This layer demands to be left behind. Each fiber curves inward on itself, like the micro-elements of the hard half of Velcro, it grips, it holds. It marks the territory beneath it, it is the exoskeleton of depth.
XV.
The layers lick upwards, spreading silk into my fingers. They are saturated, bathing in themselves. I dream of incorporating myself into them, to become another fold in the wet maze. I feel the central fin that leads upwards and ends in an understated button, which cleaves the middle depth into a duality, canyons through which I glide. This part of her body teaches me subtlety and grace, removes me from the ferocious obligation of penetration.
XVI.
But it was always there, her depths. There is a sudden drop off beneath her, which she never understood. Sometimes I think I understand this cavity better than her, that I teach her about it’s potential. Sometimes I think that I can only bow to its power over me, that its truth is beyond both of us.
XVII.
Deep inside her is revealed an internal self completely absent from the male race. I have long sought to wander, to thrust myself over the earth and spread over its surface, to explore, to adventure. But the journey she takes me on is inward, through her eyes, through her concavity. She is earth itself, formed itself with layers upon layers of cooled fire, fusion, the furnace remains inside, unknowable to its parasitic inhabitants. Her guidance is selfless, she allows me into ontological realms forbidden to men alone.
XVIII.
Here, I exist as a beast, to penetrate, gently. She exists as the ground, to push back, gently. I can dream all I want of renouncing the soft violence inherent in my phallus, but I cannot. Hers is the level of peace, of pure existence, mine is the burden that patriarchal society has born for History. It is Manifest Destiny and the Triangle Trade, and I am powerless against History.
XIX.
It is absence, her deepest depths. And absence controls my consciousness, desire unfulfilled entirely poison, and I cannot be with her ever again at these moments. From here comes the Darkness, the great Lack that lies at the inevitable core of love, of my love.
XX.
But more often comes satiation; I fill her depths and complacency gives way to play, childlike truth, and eventually sleep. She brings my beast to closure, brings me to her own level, peace. Innocent being. And for this I depend on her, this is the addiction beyond rehabilitation, this is rehabilitation itself.