Not Satin

My erotic imagination doesn't run to satin. Not enough drag for the fingertips: not enough depth of field. Give me a flannel nightgown, or a worn-to-transparent tee, any time. Give me a faint down, body hair I can see distinctly only in the corona, when an elbow eclipses the sun, but which tickles, tickles faintly, a spiderweb whisper before the cold-to-warmth of real touch. (Real! Get out.)

I don't want slick or smooth. Not, at least, until it is well-earned: warmed and sweated from within. I don't want an Eros who is glib, who knows what to say. I want one who stutters and loses his place. I want an awkwardness of desire that drives beyond capacity. A strangled baying, not a little-girl lisp. I want to be struck and scratched. By accident. I am not looking for tableaux, however pretty. Not my thing. No: no satin, not for me.

Fields of seablush and camas lily;
fields we knew when the world was young.