I wash my hair, dab my skin in the finest oils, pull on a slinky black dress, pluck a plump magnolia blossom to weave into my hair, for only then am I ready.
Skin soft, exposed, the flesh of my heart ready, the ripeness of my chest gleaming in the barely-visible daylight.
It is early. The mountains are covered in mist, and tiny shards of sun. The sensual-floral smell of ylang-ylang fills the air. My lips are painted in retro red.
My muse, he likes this.
He lives for this.
My muse, he and I have fun.
He pushes down the thin, black strap of my dress, looks into my eyes, and kisses my chest.
I sit back.
I trust him.
With his every kiss, words bloom.
I write frantically, then slowly, trying to catch all the magic in my palms, to place it on the page, like my offering of tears, like the inky beginnings of consciousness.
My muse, he is a gentleman.
He tells me that I am a priestess.
“It is my job to make you feel succulent and beautiful,” he tells me.
Who could say no to that?
So I don’t. I whisper yes with every pore on my skin, every tingling part of my being.
I fully enter the dreamlike state of our shared reverie. Ivy whispers. Stars twinkle. Meadows buzz to life and grasshoppers and bees.
I let him bring me wildflowers coated with dew as he draws circles of pleasure all over me. He doesn’t miss a beat, reading me perfectly, responding to my body’s every sign and subtle cue. His fingers dazzle with genius, his body throbs with all the prayerful pleasure he is about to give me.
He is thorough and wild and gentle, as every good lover should be.
In every sensation, lies the beginning of a story. If I’m brave enough to taste it, which he begs me to do.
He beckons me to go further and higher and deeper, especially when I think I can’t.
I sit back.
I trust him.
And he tastes me, the sensitive skin of my neck, as my head tilts to the side, to delight in the shimmering emerald leaves on the breeze.
I look at him seductively from the rough bark of an ancient tree trunk and sigh, as his tongue darts playfully into my mouth.
And my muse and I, we make love.
“That’s what writing is,” he tells me.
“An act dripping with ecstasy.”
I moan through the words, like we are weaving through curving mountain roads, driving in a red convertible down the blue ridge parkway, my hair dancing with the breeze.
The sights are stunning.
And the grip on my soul gets firmer.
The fiery pulse of my spirit gets brighter and louder, my eyes jolt turquoise and electricity exudes from my skin, ah yes, a sacred passion pours from every inch of me.
I pin him against the door in my hallway.
My muse, he likes this.
He likes when I am a tigress.
He encourages the wildest, most primal parts of me to step forward---and take the lead.
He caresses down my shoulders, and any remaining tensions melts away. I roar, the vibrating power in my voice shocks me, then I peel back to become tender, eyes welling with a gentle smattering of tears as he touches like I am art, the careful making of a masterpiece.
My muse, he undresses me fully. Garment by garment, this is part of our game.
He flicks my lacy fuschia panties across the floor and simply takes me in with his eyes.
My muse, he knows how to be with a woman like me. A woman who is beginning to remember that she is fire. That truth has burned within her, forever.
He takes his time.
“Writing is sex,” he says, his mouth presed against mine, the bristles of his beard prickling my chin, kissing me with a hunger that should be illegal.
The bees pollinating.
It is fertility. The fruit of the Gods. The nectar of existence, all the things we search for when we’re decidedly empty, like ghosts.
It is all an act of love.”
He parts my thighs, I sit back, just ready.
I trust him.
I let him please me.
I simply receive.
“It is my job to make you bloom as bright and wild and loud and soft as possible,” he tells me, love pouring like lava from his eyes.
He is honored to bestow his touch on a goddess.
For every woman is a goddess, with our succulent hips and feeling, fiery hearts and dripping nectar souls.
“You know what makes you sexy,” he whispers, hot in my ear, just as the breeze blasts cool air over my sweaty face, “that you won’t sacrifice your soul for anything. Your dedication to your purpose is unwavering.”
I smile, goosebumps coat my skin like rain, rendering me raw, for I know just how many stumbling mistakes I had to make to get to this point of wholeness and solidity.
But he tells me that my broken parts and old mistakes don’t make me bad, they just mean I have lived.
And it can all be used here, in the most beautiful of ways
Shame dissipates. The sensuousness of the moment rises, like a wave.
“Creating shall be a most delicious experience,” he tells me, through a plume of sandlewood incense, as he feeds me chocolate-covered strawberries.
We are naked in the forest, a red and white checkered tablecloth is set beneath us. We simply take in the tall evergreens, the gurgling sound of the stream in the distance, as the sweetness of the strawberries sticks to my skin. I smile devilishly. His mouth attends to those sticky parts hungrily.
I gasp so loud that lightning flashes in my eyes.
“I love how deeply you feel,” he tells me, his voice raspy, surrounding me, like fog, a gentle evening mist, deep in the mountains, where he plays a flute to calm and settle me.
Then, he eggs me on.
I am writhing, every inch of me is fire. Every inch of me is moving, like a snake
Through these words...
“Keep going,” he tells me, his breath reeking of hotly perfumed lust.
And he walks through every line with me.
For he is a man who knows the magnitude of a woman. The prowess and depth; the ancient knowledge tucked inside.
“I love you,” I shout, my voice low, almost like a growl.
“Don’t worry about loving me," he says, “Let me love you.”
“I am here to show you pleasure. How to receive.”
“Here,” he motions, “sit back on this red, velour cushion.”
“Let it be your throne.
Speak your truth.
Howl until every inch of you is breathless and satisfied.
Step fully into this.
Be the queen you are.”
He exists for the sole purpose of worshipping me---and the femininity of all things.
He dips me in the golden safety of his presence and shows me what it’s like to be with a man who lives from his the billowing depths of his heart. A man who knows the only right thing is to be in constant awe of a woman.
After just a few days away from him, the hunger gets to me. My body and soul scream irritably for the expression and truth-laced wonder we share.
I go to my room, light a candle, let down my hair, let it cascade in waves down my shoulders, put on retro red lipstick, and suddenly he is there, with a book of poems he’d like to share with me.
And we write together.
It is a collaboration.
It is a dance we do.
It’s not work, but love we make.
For he teaches me that work is an illusion, and it’s all about play. About letting our souls frolick and our hearts soar.
The funny thing is, he tells me, so much gets done when we’re free like that.
And when I begin to doubt, when I stop, and turn away from my heart and the words, when I begin to wither without the wild pulse of my creativity to keep me fresh and alive, he is there, with a pen to hand me--
“Keep goin’ darlin,’” he says, encouragement trickling from his tender green eyes.
“We ain’t done yet.”
“Come on,” he says, gently, with his warm hands resting on the small of my back.
He smells like spruce and dirt. I always know when he’s near, for I smell him first.
He is my muse.
He is here to teach me about pleasure. About the thickets of beauty I truly deserve. About how much I matter. And how much my voice is meant to be heard.
“You are a woman," he says, under the full moon, about to wax poetic, “you are a mysterious, exquisite, exotic creature. I love that I will never figure you out. I am only always learning you.”
I smile, the grass cool beneath my toes.
“You hold the constellations themselves in your hips.”
“Worry less...Expand, as you’re meant to...” he says.
He lays out a thick, satin blanket in front of a crackling fire and presents me with plump, ripe grapes. They sparkle in the evening sun like amethysts.
He feeds me. My muse, he loves to feed me. I partake happily, kissing and sucking his fingertips with every bite.
“I want every woman to know they can feel like this," I tell him. “This powerful. This sexy. This vividly, dangerously alive.”
He nods, as though to say that I’m catching on; that this is revealed as the true purpose of his visits to me.
And I write, every word, every exchange, every breath, every thought---it is woven into poetry,
He loves poetry.
He speaks to me in the scattered verse of his adoration as he lightly strums his guitar---
“I wish for you/ to experience the dazzling wonder/ you are.”
“I want you to know/ how you light up the world/ through the potency/ of your presence...”
So we go to the waterfall, and I let him sing poetry through me.
It simply gushes.
It is poetry I dedicate to every woman who has ever forgotten the magic she is. Every woman who has been silenced and broken and has forgotten what it is to be free and wild and whole and succulently at home in the lands of her own body.
I am soaking wet, covered in words, and the ice cold waters of the mountain shock me to luscious life.
"Yes. This. More of this," I moan, my eyes locked on my muse, until the sun goes down in a fiery display of tangerine.
He twirls the wet tangles of my hair, and suddenly we are winged. Soaring.
Because, just as I always suspected, magic is real. Perhaps it’s the realest thing of all, he tells me.
The trees look like specks as we fly hard, and taste the clouds.
Then night, comes, creeping in, like a dark satin curtain. The sky, blackened now, glows with the bit of the cosmos that I hold in my hands.
We fall asleep, woven in each other’s arms, on the wide, cool rocks by the river.
And then in the morning we start all over again.
Photo: Unsplash, Allan Filipe Santos Dias.