A poem about sex.

If you you don't want to read about sex, please exit now.

I've always had a hard time writing about sex, both in general, and specifically in verse. It seems to easy to slide into cliche, to say something so metaphorically that all impact is lost.

Sex, for me, at least, is not metaphorical. It is not fireworks, or burning loins, or amazing flower laden bliss. Sex is raw, and naked, and silly, often. Sex, if I'm doing it right, is where I get to be my most honest, naked, uncomplicated self.

And that self might mangle a metaphor, or two. But I'm more likely to talk dirty by saying "Fuck me." That is how I want to write about sex.

I think I may have done it this time.

Without further ado, the poem:

I wake from my dream
just long enough to
turn off the alarm,
curl back into blankets
and wait for you.

When you come home,
I beg you
to fuck me
like you did in my dream.

You lay
your head on
my thigh, hidden under blankets
and you're looking at me
while your
cold, cold hands
slide up my legs.

I'm wet, and warm,
and writhing on your hands, fingers in me
warming slowly.

Until I beg you
please, please
to fuck me
and you do.

Blog Blather

I was internet chatting with the lovely and talented Keathwick of Familiar Magic the other night, and she, in passing, remarked: "You seriously make me want to blog, too. And I'm just not that kind of girl, normally."

Now, what precisely is "that kind of girl", if I am one, and she is not? It cannot be ability, for I am in awe of Keathwick's writing skills. And she has already taken the first step of putting work of her own out for the great masses of the internet to look at. But.

It is easier to be an exhibitionist in some things than others. We have both acted, both submitted to, and won, poetry contests, both wallowed in academia, both written: and yet, I am, apparently the kind of girl that blogs, and, in her mind, she is not.

My poetry, for example. It hides. Now that I am no longer taking workshops and classes, it rarely makes it out of my computer into the rest of the world. I blame this on the pushy "poets" that my high school was overstocked with. One girl, in particular, would come up to me, and ask for my opion on her poems. They were wreached. I was polite, but horrified. I did not wish to be that person. And so my poetry hides away.

But somehow I reached the point where prose, which is hardly the medium I am most comfortable in, is what I have committed to write, at least once a week here on Books, Blogs, and Blather.

I asked Paradox if blogging is inherently an exhibitionistic endeavor. "Yes." He replied, and promptly turned over and went to sleep. But is it as simple as that? I suspect that it is also a desire for community. A specific, constructed community, built on a shared network of ongoing work, informed heavily by other members of said community. An intentional community of ideas, if you will. I admit that a feeling of desire for membership into this "community" helped motivate me.

But to return to my initial pondering: what does "that kind of girl" signify? Exhibitionism, yes. Self chosen invitation to a "community" of ideas, yes. Ahhh... one must invite one's self. "That kind of girl" is a pushy party crasher.

Alright. I realize that this is not entirely correct. After all, no one is obliged to read one's blog, and the "community" of bloggers is, in my limited experience, a welcoming group. But the fear of going where one is not invited lingers in the corners.

And yet, here I am. "That kind of girl," writing a post on her blog.