This post is a bit of a technical foray into my past, and I wrote it with the hope that it might be useful and or enlightening. This is not to say there aren't many, many men who "get it", are attuned to their lovers and put a woman's pleasure first. It's only a fragment of my experience. xj
"Yes. I will. Yes..." Molly Bloom's Soliloquy, Ulysses, James Joyce.
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
I Knew a Woman-- Theodore Roethke
I can think of nothing as wonderful and mystical as coming with your lover, eyes to eyes, body to body.I've now had this experience in the bathroom of a train boiling down the Italian coast, on a rock on the Maine Coast at high noon, on the floor, the couch, the kitchen table. I have been lucky to have four or five lovers over the years I taught my favorite position/technique to, who never shamed me or found it strange and who loved the results of their "work."
Believe me, I had years of frustration before my forays into passion. Years ago a friend I had confided in finally referred me to her ex-boyfriend, who made love to me this way: he came into me and then we lay on our sides-- he was within me, and began to massage me where it counted, where it counts for most women if you believe the stats..
I was stunned-- I had become very frustrated with first one partner then the other, thinking something was wrong with me. I loved our time together, but was too shy to let go. However, I worked up my courage and showed my next lover what felt good. Same thing; on our sides, not moving much but pulsing within me, massaging me.
One of my lovers, a poet from another country, came back into my life years after our first relationship and we made love with the afternoon sun streaming into my apartment. I could feel how important my pleasure was for him. We were in the missionary clench; he reached down and caressed me while inside me. For we women, this is heaven. You have only to look at the diagram below to understand why. We want to be filled, but the clitoris needs to be wholly, fully involved.
Women are afraid to tell their men what they are longing for-- afraid still, after all these years of feminism, gaining equality and independence-- still worried about unmanning their partners. I never wanted a lovemaking session to turn into an anatomy lesson. And, although this will sound like generalizing, the field of sane and giving men narrows as you age. There are plenty of bees buzzing around the honey pot who want to test drive their fertility with just about anyone. But good lover material? Not so much.
Now, at 62, I am gratefully alone. I've made peace with my solitude and that it means I'm free of the pressure to please my partner, the worry and stress of wondering whether he is happy. I've begun to explore my body all over again. I learned some surprising things. Gentle pressure and building permits the lovely orchid of flesh that is the clitoris to engorge and become responsive and hungry. You can't expect your body to go from 0 to mach 10-- you have to take responsibility for your own pleasure and really turn yourself on. In all of my years of sexual activity I subordinated my pleasure to my lover's in order to keep him, make him feel like a total stud muffin. I thereby cheated both of us and I am not alone in telling little lies.
After a few minutes of teasing and savoring the building of desire, getting yourself to the point of starving for it, it happens as naturally as a cloud burst and so intensely it is almost painful. Women therefore, get their version of an erection and in any intimacy that needs to be a priority. And what a shock to feel it all getting better as I age.
More than ever, I'm convinced that the best thing a man can do for his lover is to ask her what she likes and let her show him. We always assume we know what to do. Women are as hungry as men. Imagine a man trying to come without an erection-- we women for years have been trying to force ourselves to get there without doing the right things or asking for them.
There isn't much info online about combining penetration and clitoral stimulation. It takes so much trust to make ourselves vulnerable. But out of that vulnerability comes joy, fulfillment, release. I have cried tears of gratitude and joy in a lover's arms in the past. I want anyone suffering with confusion in this department to know that there are solutions. Rock on, love on. Weigh in. The sketch below shows the complex, fascinating orchid in all her glory. Read and weep...xxxj
Re-posting, from Eve Rises Up, by yours truly:
I come wet, singing with the sin of it
to tell you
That more than you have imagined
I have a Cock of my own
Between my legs
Under its pretty prepuce
A delicate white falcon under its hood
A nub of love that fills with blood
With petals running beneath the skin
A sensate arbor for the wines of desire
A cock of my own with its sensate head
A bird with long red wings
Between my legs
So that in rewriting the writ
For the sake of the Clit
I spread you out
Like a corpse taken down
From the Cross
I oil your torso
I slide over your length
With my strong little bird
I rise over your mouth
I nudge against your lip
I am far away from the snake
Between your legs that beats
With blood--
The one-eyed watchman in the watch tower
The python among the apples.
I ride your mouth
With the little goddess in the boat
And when I've pleased
my little briny dove
And tears bead from my flesh
And I know the petite morte
Is at the base of my spine
Eyes to eyes,
Mouth to mouth--
I let you nudge into me
I let you in inch
By inch
We move at my direction
I say barely move in me
And that is what I mean
You know nothing
You never knew anything
I am your Maestra
You are my schoolboy
I am your Priestess
You are my Penitent
And when I crest and burn
And pull you through me
And you feel my trembling
And my fever sets you on fire
Manchild in the Promised Land
We together in the Kingdom of Fuck
A thousand angels dancing
On the Clit’s soft head
Your fingers coaxing
The fevered dove’s head
Then, I’ll let you in
Boiling over
To the root
The love-sword in the hilt
You little boy Adam,
With your Weeping King Cock
In the wet spent sea-flower of my Love.
cc
A fitting caption: "there's much much more to me than meets the eye...."
