She was lying on her stomach, underwearless, the mounds of her buttocks like helipads for hands. Lush. His hands choppered in for a landing; upon touchdown they broke into mammalian fingerlings that warm-nosed up to the very small of her back, blunt pads gliding thru that sweet indent so like a sidewise smile arcing along the lit rut of her spine. At his rising touch she parted her lips and exhaled a hey and closed her eyes like portculli, lashes brushing hushly and brow flushly rousing and russet hair swish-washing plashly down to the whorled sea-boulder of her ears, soft tides of hair gushing rusty ‘round the hard blue half-shells of her lapis-lazuli earrings, while with a seismic shifting, with geysers and guyots erupting from her tectonic lifting and sifting, she landslid onto her back, oh lordy, suggested her sinuous hips and unearthed her milky torso, whose long flourishy lines swerved and scrawled all silky in an unfinished X toward her floaty frills. She was that most amazing and anomalous marvel: someone he loved who loved him, what? plus a string that sang to his clutch, the rounded root of Platonic Womanliness, the fudgy, slushy, blushing essence of feminine sexuality, yum. He ran his fortunate hands over tumid cupolas, the plush church of her belly, he kissed in a ring around a navel incensed with poesies. The secret to sexitude, which he’d heard from one of the seamier mountaintop yogis, was not to try to please her—nah man!—but to take his own pleasure in pleasing her—trust, trust!—to start slow and low, as in most stories, to tease and trip up to the tip of greatest tension—then to torque. To build from mush to crush, from fluffing to stuffing. Like any gourmet in a salivary frenzy, he’d begin by savoring each mouthful and end by swallowing gallons at a gulp—yuss yuss, he must not rush such lust, else bust.
Every moment is a becoming, if you ask it nicely.
Cheek to sheet, she abandoned her eyes, fingers, feet, deserting herself like Atlantis darkling and lightling only in the precincts where his hands fandangoed like bulldozing ballerinas, like becking balls, patting petting pitting potting putting, kneading her subcutaneous masses, excavating the palace in her shoulderblade, moving mountains of her sunwarm sand. There’s a hell of a universe inside us, let’s go! Her bedroom was sinking underwater, but in a gentle, non-drowny, harmoniously wavy way—whee: marine bubbles carbonated the wobbling walls, flocks of eels slithered like rippled black chips, and the TV ruffled like an S, still yabbling about coral reefs. Her man’s spiced smell pushed melting pinnacles into her nostrils, his scruff scraped her stomach with luscious roughness, his kiss bussed up her thigh in a heated sequence of immaculate smacks, his rooting-tooting floodsome fingers sent nets of tingles racing under her skin, tangles of winged twingles conflowing and synwrapping, curly breakers of blood-splush light scudding beneath her ribs and hitting up against her sugar heart. Yet he stayed laid-back; she’d have to wait for his weight, to let crest unconfessed her zest for his chest, as he, on her skin, with slow, circumambulatory, retreating approaches, traced messages without words and made promises without punctuation in his hand’s autographic manuscripture, each caress expressing pages upon pages that she read and read, recording what his touch said, her answeriloquy moany & aromatically manifest & a-tender meted and met. Concentrically closing, he drizzled in toward her secret octopus’s garden, toward the felty fimbriations of her anemones, her multicolored and omnifarious columbarium with its tissue corals and ruche corals, its leaf, star, and horn corals, its fenestra-fan corals with their bullion fringes of precious seaweeds, his hands splitting into fiddly hordes of tiny firm seahorses, into forked worms and sea slugs ribboning through bladderwrack, into twenty-legged monster starfish gobbling their own children, into electric squids mating with ten sets of plugs and sockets, while currents soughed, while pontifexfish swung apocrine censers and leered out from mozettas of mosses, while throbby seals dove through tapering tight grottoes, ‘n’ sharky teeth tested sparky meat, ‘n’ eremite crabs screwed into velvet elf-shells and sssssiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiighed.
Every coming is a becoming, and in the middle there was the Word:
YES!
From the heavy heavens the light light never reached them pure, but refracted, musty, frowsty, colonized, bosky photons swirling like forested krill over sluddy depths full of serrated ctenophores swimming like waning rainbow chainsaws. Her coralline smell soothed his spiracles and let him breathe subaqueously, stretching him into a siphonophore siphiraling down through the reef’s raving caves, circumvoluting her labyrinths, his trailing fringes sweeping over barnacles and conches, massaging the librating heads of sunfish, starfish and moonfish, spreading the bead-eye curtains of flowy ocean ferns. With depth came dark; soon the only glowliness shook from his own elongated many-body pumping its cilia in chromatic metachronism, his 100m catena of fans, mantles, antennae, tentacles, fringes and fruits wending and wanding toward her central chamber, her inmost pleasurehouse: a post-volcanic porphyritic ventricle lined with honeycomb coral that arched around a golden pufferfish. That lustrous puffer, once touched, wrapped and squeezed by his translucid tentacles, would swell ‘n’ swell till its spiny sides bumped up against the coral, till its pikes, spearing through particulated ichor, punctured his tentacles in one thousand junctures, pierced the honeycomb coral’s dizzy interstices, penetrated the lustral vacuoles and drew quick liquids from their jelly cores—yikes, this she liked!—till the coral complex convulsed, the whacking water fatted into batter, and the priceless pufferfish popped! shot its spikes! and drooled a single golden coin! Whaaaaaaaa! Eureka! Not a material coin, of course, but a spiritual coin of Love! Such is the miracle of sex!