Sometimes, and I mean this now, a man just needs a woman on top of him. Nothing dirty about it, no malicious intentions, none of that power struggle stuff about who’s in control and who’s giving in. Not even the oft desired beast with two backs.
It’s just the need for that warmth, that beat, like thup thup thup (or thump thump thump if you hold on for dear life and listen in), and it feels like all the problems, first world or otherwise, matter for less, so much less. They write about things like fingers blazing trails of fire along skin (sometimes dewy skin, but not necessary), and it gets old, sure, but it’s sort of true I suppose. Clavicles, nails, locks, taut stringy muscly parts, soft cushiony pushy parts, sometimes in awkward places (watch those knees and elbows), sometimes fitting into us like the whole rainbow of legos (building blocks, we fit together so nicely in spite of the war of the sexes), palid to peach to pink to all manner of mocha (caramelo y chocolate, ay mamí chula), sometimes spotty or fluffy or smooth or rough, because that’s what it is, that’s what we need: the real deal.
And you know what, know the real deal in all this? Not just any woman, no ma’am. Maybe sometimes, in weaker moments, or when we’ve been torn apart and given in, but most of the time it’s got to got to be her. Not The One (ridiculous notion), but the one, a woman we know and whom we care for, who knows us and cares for us, and when it’s that woman, her? Oh man, oh brother, oh wow.
And so, yes, so much desire, mere desire, but to relegate desire to a secondary or even (jeez, God forbid) tertiary position in the bullet list of life is unimaginable. There’s logic up in here, I assure you, but what can I say except that I am man, I am needy, and if we should be blessed by the blanket then we can die having lived a complete life.
But such post-mortem thoughts can wait. For now I simply ask that you lie on me, silently, and enjoy the first rays of:
The Sun Rising
by John Donne
Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late schoolboys and sour ‘prentices,
Go tell court huntsmen that the King will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shoulds’t thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both th’Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left’st them, or lie here with me?
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, ‘All here in one bed lay.’
She’s all states, and all princes, I;
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here, to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.