There is this guy. I will call him the Glassblower. I wrote a poem about him, back last year when we were dating. That poem is at https://eroticapoetica.wordpress.com/2013/02/17/blow-me/
The Glassblower, unlike my Colombian lover, or my would-be fiancé the Hyderabadi Nawab (who I have not written much about yet here), sits on the periphery of my love life. He is almost not involved in it at all. And yet every once in awhile he floats to the surface of my dreams and becomes a preoccupation for me.
I originally met him at my gym. My gym is not a fancy place, probably pretty standard for a gym, but in addition to exercise equipment it hosts a spa area with sauna, steam room, hot tub and indoor and outdoor pools. The outdoor pool is pleasant, hidden off the street in Pleasure Point (a popular surfing spot); it is flanked by palm trees, pools…
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My hands play a sensual raga
upon my sultry body,
the bells of my breasts, nipples tinkling like kartals,
the drumbeat of my clitoris
throbbing like Zakir Hussein on the tabla.
Unbridled longing is my siren song.
My bed is a magic carpet from Vijayanagara.
My inner Tantric temple is made of molten rose quartz,
garlanded with jasmine flowers,
smoky with the scent of sandalwood,
the pink fleshy gates inscribed with lilting golden Sanskrit letters,
“lotus-dwelling, place of radiance.”
Enter me and you will enter Shangri-la.
Sweet and tart is my rasa.
My sweat is Himalayan salt;
my juicy mangoes are lusciously ripe.
My hot little pussy drips neem honey and unctuous amrita;
tease your cock against me
and I will rub this on you
like a salve.
Suck on my breasts
and taste my sacred milk of Wisdom,
receive the bittersweet Ayurvedic medicine of my Love,
for I am a Goddess with many arms and many hearts
and many g spots
and I will eat you like Durga into oblivion
until you cum
hard and aching and deliciously liquid
all over my lips,
with the knowledge
of Absolute Shivashakti
as I swallow you down.