"I paint myself because I am often alone and I am the subject I know best."
— Frida Kahlo
Photo by Guillermo Davila, 1929.
Oh most definitely. It’s quite beautiful.
If you asked me where my thoughts go when I think of you, I would say that I go to heaven within your kiss. Perhaps that’s why I hold you so tightly, how could I ever wish to leave heaven.
I lay in bed,
Breeze, shades open,
Light left in from a lazy moon.
I watched your eyes as I felt,
You run your finger,
The length of my body,
Navigating and studying,
Every muscle and ridge of skin.
Never have I been read,
So complete, from cover to cover.
Never have I been so consumed.
Pulling off the last corner,
Of the sheet from our bed,
You exposed all of me,
Head to toe, skin.
You told me
I was your,
pen & ink artwork and poetry by ~ c.n. o’mahony 2013 ~
california native series ~ matilija poppy
no. 2 of 2 (vertical)
original & signed prints available
As I entered I saw that the television was on, volume turned low, flickering shapes casting a pale glow over her skin.
She lay back, eyes heavy-lidded, gleaming in the light, locked on what was on the screen, hands drifting lazily over her body, lips parted slightly. I watched as her back arched, fingers moving silken fabric aside, exposing moist folds, touching, teasing. Her eyelids flutter but stay open. Her breasts are tipped with hard nubs, thrown in sharp relief in the pale light. I feel my own arousal in response to hers, hard and urgent and thick in my veins.
I can hardly breathe, watching her there. I move to one side, unsure if she’ll see me, hoping she will, hoping she won’t. I see flesh on the screen, moving in rhythm, but my eyes are drawn to hers, my gaze follows her body from neck to shoulder to arm to fingers, a dance, swirling and tapping and dipping. I hear her sigh and see her movements quicken.
Just a few feet away and I step closer, closer, drawn inexorably down to the floor. Her fingers move, her legs clench, I close the distance even more, inches away, a breath, a heartbeat, and then my lips find her center, wet with her excitement, scented with her essence. I kiss her fingertips, my tongue tastes her, delves deeper, longer strokes.
Over the flat plain of her stomach, the rolling hills of her breasts, the peaks of her nipples, I see her face. Mouth open now, breath coming faster. Her eyes still watch the images on the screen but as her fingers tangle in my hair, drawing me close, her hips arching, pressing her against my mouth.
I drink eagerly, searching, sucking, delving, exploring. She presses up and holds me down, my hands on her thighs, her back, supporting her. My tongue finds her hard nub, buried between folds of sensitive flesh and teases it, explores it, flicks over it. Her whole body is a taut wire, a spring stretched to its point of no return. Then her eyes close and she arches against me like a wave, like the ocean itself, a gasp and a cry and a moan issuing from her lips. And I keep her with me until the waves subside, kissing her as I would her face, her mouth.
She is looking down at me now, the images on the screen forgotten, a sly smile curled across her lips. Her hands stroke my hair, my cheek, thumb playing across my lips still moist from her. There’s a spark in her eye that has nothing to do with a reflection from the screen, the spark we just kindled together, the spark that feels that it could, at any moment, fan into bright flame.
Those are the fires that keep you warm this time of year.
Clothes shed, insecurities ignored, inhibitions abandoned. Now just you and me - our fingers, our skin, our mouths, our eager flesh, our naked need, our yearning hearts, all reaching for each other.
Come with me, then. Let’s begin.