help me pleasure you

Spread Across the Room, You Open Up

Harmony pervades, so you are surrounded by a blend of ylang-ylang, patchouli, lavender and thyme. You have one sense, the olfactory. This is a hypothetical, but under the influence of what it assumes the bedroom I am about to have you imagine could be from anywhere in the world. It is possible you are some place between Asia and France. Yet in actuality, you are right here, where nothing is definitely one or the other. What is becoming you is ambiguous. But letting your feet get wet, you consider the temperature and feel destined to continue traveling toward light. 

Inside this bedroom a refuge of wanderlust is sleeping and breathing a different air in the nocturnal retreat from time. Consuming an air that is poison for the logic and seeps through the sleeper’s amorous dreams. Does it make the night palpable? Is the dreamer watching erotic cinema? Unlikely. We are literary minds, textual beings, principally psychic. 

No worry Mom. This won’t change the way Dad sees his child. We will always be young at heart.

We are a product of our culture. We desire visuals. We are self-desiring subjects. Subjects desire other selves. We all desire to be seen, while our want is to be known. We all desire to be taken in and devoured like a forbidden fruit. This defines an exhibitionist. But try not to judge. What matters is not always what you think. There is an unavoidable tension between what a word implies and what a word means. And we should not be made to feel bad. We should not be embarrassed of self-consciousness. We should not resist our innate outward drive. I oppose denial. 

And can only hope to inhale all lines, be a speed reader, stay up high on Bachelard, Barthes, Blanchot, Cavafy, Cixous, Duras, Durell, Figes, Genet, Heidegger, Hesse, Irigaray, Kafka, Kristeva, Lispector, Nin, Maso, Pessoa, Pirandello, Pizarnik, Proust, Queryas, Rilke, Rousseau, Sarautte, St. Augustine, Young, Vivien, Waldrop, Wilde, Woolf. A personal library exposes spines, The Autobiography of The Room Keeper. Alas, I confess, if only I can be sleepless, stimulated for all time. 

Eyes of others become dilated, their mouths hanging happily loose. Whoever sleeps with me will dream inside my mind’s boudoir. Having become a participant in desire’s life, man discovers darkness, my best-kept secrets. The soul surrenders to speculation—help tie my hands back—the secrecy of sensuality is no longer insisted upon, so don’t objectify. Using language most often inside a silent nocturnal room will at once hide us and help us be exposed. Doors open wide, letting you pass through, tempting you to stay awhile, to let yourself be heard and your gestures be learnt.