A Literary Fetish?

by Kristie LeVangie

I think about sex ALL the time. I see sex in almost everything around me. At times, I just close my eyes and feel through my body the sensation of breathing. I feel my chest rise, my nipples hardened, my stomach tighten, the blood flowing to the pinnacle of my being.

Lots of things turn me on—Sunday afternoon football, closets, baby oil and plastic sheeting, hairbrushes, the smell of cilantro, and long hot bubble baths. But as strange as some of these may be to you, they can’t touch my greatest fetish—words.

I had a grandmother that loved to sit down with Sunday crossword puzzles. She would read the hint aloud, followed by the answer aloud, and I picked up many words that other kids my age never had exposure to. She was a connoisseur of words and a woman that never hid her intellect.

From her, I learned the value of words. I learned that some carry more weight than others. I learned that simple exchanges could subtly tweak the meaning of a phrase or the description of a setting. But perhaps the most important thing I learned was that some words could even move people. They could evoke reaction. Words had power.

It was in my late teens when my poetry began its erotic awakenings. Sexually charged as far back as I can remember, my young hormonal body was ready to explode. And I found that I could capture all the feelings, all the cravings in my writings.

Now in my late thirties, I found my home in the fusion between lust and poetry where words are foreplay, expression is precise and evoking, imagery is sinful, and all of it captures a place in time.

Sometimes…it’s a powerful verbal fuck, a no-holds-barred blunt, crass, short and potent expression of lust.

I am not asking for love.

No long languid afternoons
Of touching and caressing.

I am asking to fuck—

To take the whole of you
Into my ride,
To tear your cock
From your body
With my cunt,
To bathe in your cum
And lick myself clean…

I am asking to fuck.

I am not asking for love.
No soft lovely words
And feelings shared.

It’s better to be your whore
Than your lover.
I want to throw you,
Rip away your clothes,
Surprise you with indecency,
Shove my tits in your face,
And beg for you to suck them.

Sailors have manners
Compared to me.

I am not asking for love.

I am asking to fuck
And be fucked.

And sometimes, they are languid, even sultry…

He takes me,
Ripping away minutes
From other men.

Time goes
Uncaptured
From inelegant sin.

He’s a “shouldn’t-
But-can’t-help-myself”
Kind of guy.

And in my brain,
He shows me why.

But alas, my body
Always responds.

It’s the heat in his glance
That elicits response.
And he takes me as much
As I take him.
A god and a goddess
Left unattended.

His touch fills me,
And I overflow,
Swelling inside
Ready to let go.

And he pierces me,
I draw it back.
My body craves
His frenzied attacks.

I want him drowning
Inside his demise.
In the electric darkness
Between my thighs.

I squeeze
And I break him,
A soul misplaced.

His release is my craving.
His sex I can taste.

And some words are so pungently put together, their effect resonates…

You lie before me
And lie to me
At night
In dimmed light.
Talking in future tenses
While acting in the present.
The weight of your words
I carry
Into the daylight
Where they dissipate
Too fast
For me to catch them.
I could bear the load
If you could
Anchor their value.
But you don’t
Remember my name
When the lights come on.

And yet others inspire fantasy…

…And I whispered,
“Let me take you.”

Breath on your neck,
Arms around you
From behind.
Breasts pushed against you,
I bite your earlobe.

…And I whispered…

Towering above you,
Leather clad,
Whip in hand,
Stilettos at attention,
You kneeling before me.

…And I whispered…

Hands at two o’clock
And ten,
Eyes on the road,
But attention focused
To your zipper down.

…And I whispered…

Under your desk,
Cock in hand,
Speakerphone on,
Moaning softly.

…And I whispered…
“Let me take you.”

It’s mostly the less obvious sexual words that really capture my attention and my arousal—descriptors like titillating, buxom, uninhibited, vivacious, liquid, curvaceous, languid, and masochistic. There are utterly sinful ones, like slick, salacious, or lurid. There are powerful ones, like obsession, affliction, abhore, and perhaps my favorite, fuck.

…But that’s one that grandmother NEVER would have approved of. ;)

***

All the poems in this blog are available in Libidacoria: In a Plain Brown Wrapper by Kristie LeVangie. Available at all major online retailers or at www.libidacoria.com. To listen to this essay with slight modification, log on to http://shadesofk.podbean.com and click on episode 96..