I love listening to a woman. Her mind is the most erotic creation there is. I could just eat her brain. A teacher, a student, I need to know what makes her tick, what makes her day. Who is she, who is she? Why oh Why?
I relish in her pleasure. Her pleasure is mine. I love pleasuring her. I love her orgasms, and how it outnumbers mine.
I love women so deeply that I am beguiled by her charms, my cavernous longing for her spread to others. Is it possible at all to love many equally? Is love selective? Love does discriminate, yet even so, I have loved many, and so have I love all those that came before. And long after we had run our courses, I love them still. I ran to their arms, and we made love till our body, our spirits have become an eternal flame.
She is my master. She captivates. I want to enter her mind, her soul, her skin, her bones, her muscles, her hair, her eyes. I’d like to swim in her veins. I’d like to fuse our soul together so tightly while lying together into the calmness of the dawn, that I become her, and she becomes me.
For everyday it consumes my soul loving women. The gratifying rapture I received from lying with her, the passion for her overwhelms me, she, douses my desires just enough to not quench my unending thirst.
I love how a woman smile when she gaze. Her giggle on my faux pass, slip-ups, blunders, and goofs. Her laughter echoing my silliness.
I love how she held her sumptuous breast despite the tragedy that befalls us.
I love her wrinkling nose, her light punch on my shoulder, the light tap on my belly, the jump on my back.
I love how she saw a different version of myself even though I’m too sure of who I am.
I love her natural self. How she didn’t have to be a supermodel to be with me. How she rubs her skin to mine whatever her body type maybe. Of how she doesn’t have to use whitening lotion, or how her hair doesn’t have to be silky straight or how she doesn’t have to buy expensive clothes to be with me – how she doesn’t have to pretend.
I love how sure she is of herself. Her fervor, fire, and passion. How she knows what she wants, her ambitions, her dreams, and how fervent her chasing. How she doesn’t have to pretend to be dumb, just to feed my ego.
I love our argument, whether it ends up in laughter or not.
I love what she can give at that time, and nothing else.
I love how she didn’t encroach my space, but love it also when she encroached it.
I love how she gave up her boyfriend/husband for me and how she always looks enthralled in my presence.
I love both her activeness and her passiveness. How sometimes she likes to be on top, and how sometimes she likes to be at the bottom.
I love how she doesn’t need to prove something to me – I love her because and despite of her.
I love it when she calls me because she needs me. I love her insecurities, and how swift she picks herself up after my constant reassurance, how her tears fall on my shoulders, the tenderness of her sighs.
I love how her stress evanescence because of my I love yous, my massaging of her back, my shampooing of her hair, my humming of her favorite song, my putting in her mouth her favorite chocolates.
I love it when I say something true about her, and she can take it with a smile.
I love it when she tells a story of other men just to get me jealous. How she wants me to be loyal to her even though she has a boyfriend, husband or even though she is a girlfriend’s bestfriend.
I love how she keeps me on my toes, always changing. I love how I kept deciphering what’s on her mind, how her labyrinth stretches to the abyss.
I love her bitchiness, her crankiness, craziness, the fawning, the secrets, the schemes.
I love how she always asks me if she’s fat, if I love her, or if I have no other.
I love how she looks when she sleeps. I love our staring and gazing on those delicious silent nights – how her eyes say a thousand and more. I love how she knew what’s on my mind, her beguiling hesitations.
I love how her heartbeat sounds when her breast pressed mine. I love her reprimanding voice, her moaning orgasmic voice, her teasing voice. The warmth of her breath as she pronounces my name whispering in my ears.
I love how she dance, how her hips sways.
I love how my skin blends with her skin, like the river kissing the sea.
I love a woman’s fingers when it brushed my body, pulsating, taking a life of its own. It breathes, it rises and falls, until everything else fades, and her touch becomes the universe itself.
I love her lips, her neck, her thighs, her sparse pimples, and the wetness between her legs as it brushed my thighs.
I love the smell, the taste of her sweat, the aroma of her vagina. I love the taste of her saliva.
I love the hair between her thighs.
I loved, love and will love women till I am no more.
Throughout my life, I have been accused by people who viewed my desires as dangerous, peeking at their tiny keyhole, abhoring me for loving women too much. Am I then to feel sorry for being too fond of you, am I to exile myself from my nature and limit my time spent pleasuring you? Yes, that I love you too much, that I am honored to stand in your presence, that I relished, basked, and delight at your glow, for wanting and needing you I plead guilty.
But how could I not love you? Here in this water where I sleep, you made me write a thousand and one stumbling lyrics about and for you, sketch a million more that of which flows from your folds everyday for the rest of eternity, but even here, I could do no justice to you, for you are the most graceful, delectable, elegant, endearing, charming, enchanting presence here on this heaven on earth.