In poetry, a woman’s sex is often compared to the delicate folds of a flower, set to bloom; delicate, soft and waiting. A passive recipient, ceding control to an intangible partner.
O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June...
My sex, however, does not wait on anyone. My touch is familiar to me; attentive, active and powerful. A feminine touch that is anything but docile and yielding.
My excitement is an honest space: feverish, intense and faithful. My ascension is a journey with me at the helm; connected mind and flesh, thunderous conclusions, and final whimpers.
My pleasure is not a mystery. It is not a dirty secret. It is not a silent crash in the forest when no one else is present. I nurture my pleasure to grow and bloom of it’s own accord, because my pleasure is my own.
