I shall call myself the madam of a house of literary prostitution. – Anaïs Nin
I am the chattel of the sensual, mistress of the ecstatic, servant of a ripened imagination.
I shall call myself a seductress, a courtesan of temptation. I am a voyeur of the most violatory order. I am a maker of masculine prowess, a manufacturer of unrequited lust, and a sculptor of unadulterated flesh tethered by desire.
I am a romantic.
I shall call myself an architect of fantasy. A hand that molds the fabric of female desire to a multiplicity of rarefied forms.
I revere love.
I am what they won’t teach you in school. I write about the most vulnerable of human emotions and the most awkward of bodily positions. I am a coming together.
I am the rhythm of pounding flesh. I am the voice that always begs him, quietly, not to stop. The cry that pierces the night with the venerable stings of ecstasy.
I am that part of you that can’t forget what it was to feel him entering you for the first time. Swollen. Wet. Pulsing. To run your hands over his chest and shoulders. It was a moment you’d been anticipating for so long.
When he turned you onto your stomach and plunged deep inside of you. In an assault on your thin, slick, tightly drawn skin. He pushed harder and harder. Your flesh was raw. I could hear him groaning.
I am the sheets drenched in sweat. His and yours. Your hands clenched in fists that clung desperately to blankets and pillows in an effort to anchor yourself against his violent thrusting.
You screamed when he pulled you up on your knees, grabbed your breasts, and drove every inch of himself into you with a force you could feel in your gut. I made you scream when he made you come. You whimpered when he picked you up and set you on top of him. When his fingers dug deep into the supple flesh of your hips, lifting you up and spreading you apart. You were dripping. He jammed himself further and further into you. Sweat trickled from between your breasts onto his chest and neck. His whole body quaked. His moaning grew louder, and you moaned with him.
He looks so angry when he’s about to come. Don’t you think?
I wrote him for you. I write them all for you—and for myself. So I won’t forget.
I shall call myself a voice without a voice. A name without a sound. I am suspended in an interval. I exist in a pause. Dissolving myself in the gaps. I write and rewrite us both, as we teeter on the edge of magnificence. Chasing recurrent ecstasy, I wait patiently for my life to begin. Always on the precipice. Just moments from a miracle.
“I shall call myself the madam of a house of…”