I would kiss you anywhere

Dear Daddy,

I am naked on my couch while I write this letter. I played with myself for the past hour, thighs and legs spread wide open, toes curled. I imagine your voice, saying you need me, saying I belong to you. I imagine you touch yourself and think my hands are your hands. 

Eventually I just closed my eyes and gave in to the images in my head: of your hips snapping forward, over and over, driving yourself into my dripping cunt, of you emptying yourself inside me, guttural groans coming from your throat, of my head thrown back, an animal cry wrenching itself from my body, feeling your cum marking me, as if to say: mine, mine, mine.

What do you desire? What makes your heartbeat run wild in your chest, what makes you bare your teeth? Tell me please.

Here is a poem from one of my favourite poets:

Stephen Dunn

Yesterday, for a long while,
the early morning sunlight
in the trees was sufficient,
replaced by a hello
from a long-limbed woman
pedaling her bike,
whereupon the wind came up,
dispersing the mosquitoes.
Blessings, all.
I’d come so far, it seemed,
happily looking for so little.

But then I saw a cow in a room
looking at the painting of a cow
in a field—all of which
was a painting itself—
and I felt I’d been invited
into the actual, someplace
between the real and the real.

The trees, now, are trees
I’m seeing myself seeing.
I’ll always deny that I kissed her.
I was just whispering into her mouth.

Here are some smells I love: coffee beans, old books, garlic when it first hits the pan, new books, the aftermath of making love, crisp linen. I am thinking of you coming inside after spending some time under the sun and wrapping my arms around you, my nose on your skin.

Earlier in the bath, I thought of you as my fingers kneaded my scalp. It felt like it has happened before. Day by day I feel like I have known you before.

How could you possibly exist in this world where I expect to be hurt more than to be loved? I am thinking of you sleeping now, dreaming of me.

All of these are my truths:

“Anaïs, I can’t say much now—I am in a fever. I could scarcely talk to you because I was continually on the point of getting up and throwing my arms around you…I am plunging—you have opened the void for me—there is no holding back.”

— Henry Miller, in a letter to Anaïs Nin, 4 March 1932

“It seems to me that from the very first, when you opened the door and held out your hand, smiling, I was taken in, I was yours…underneath all my sorrow and despair was a deep desire to put my arms around you, to have you love me…[I am] Asking myself over and over, does she look at men always with those steady eyes?…[I] Fear that you are coming close to me as you would to some monster, that you are studying me—heretofore I have always done the studying…”

— Henry Miller, in a letter to Anaïs Nin, 6 March 1932

“…it is not only my mind which is aware of you…I saw a mouth that was at once intelligent, animal, soft…Your laughter was not a laughter which could hurt…I felt warm, dizzy, and I sang within myself…When I saw you I thought, here is a man I could love. And I was no longer afraid of feelings…I felt your mind watching me…You do not know to what extent I guard myself, and my feelings. It is strange how you get truth from me.”

— Anaïs Nin, in a letter to Henry Miller, 9 March 1932

I was mostly lost for a long time. I think I knew that I didn’t have all the answers, but I wasted a lot of time looking for them. 

I realise now—maybe there are more questions than answers, and maybe that’s okay.

I miss school. I miss learning. I am learning everyday, but it’s a different kind of learning—it’s learning about people and life and relationships and growing up, and although these things are precious I still want to learn skills and concepts and ideas and live inside my head again.

I want to turn inwards and inwards until such time that I don’t have to look outside myself, but I feel so much like the world around me is demanding right now that I participate in it. I wanted to say no, and damn them all, no one will make me want to venture out again—and then I glance over my shoulder and I think about your face. 

I am thinking of your body. I am thinking of kneeling at your feet while you’re working, or reading a book. Of taking you in my mouth, my cheek on your thigh. Of lazily swirling my tongue around your cock. Of your hand idly caressing my hair while I place small kisses on the tip, on the base, on your balls.

I’ve always been afraid to be vulnerable. And yet I always seem to reveal myself to some people if I believe there’s a tiny little chance that it will be worth it. I don’t know if that makes me brave. Maybe foolish. After all, mantra is—If you can take the worst, take the risk.

I like different kinds of sex. Slow sex is so good, or maybe I just have an active interest in the idea of slow burns, whether it’s physical or in literature. I very much like cuddling and kissing and touches.

I am a very tactile person, too. Once during lunch, the guy I was with commented that I liked touching people, and I looked down and saw my hand on his arm and I immediately pulled away, surprised at myself, because I am usually guarded around strangers. It was our first date after all. I stammered my way towards an apology, and he said I had been running my palm up and down his arm for the last twenty minutes before he spoke. I was really embarrassed. 

Daddy, my legs are only up to here, and I am not a big-breasted bombshell. I probably have an overabundance of curves. In my previous relationship, I got berated often if I fail to exercise.

Most of the time I do not like my body, and it is hard for me to comprehend how anyone can desire it. But you desire me—maybe—and I am breathless just thinking about it. 

My brain is the key here—all the rest is just transport. 

Daddy, I may have more in common with a grumpy cat than a Brazzers orgy party. But you seem to know genuinely what I need, as if you have gone inside my brain and sat there for weeks and made a checklist. You seem to understand the mess that comes with being with me. Maybe—just maybe—I can learn to love my body again.

How is your head and heart? What are your concerns lately? What have you been reading and watching and listening to?

I want to read a book with you.

I want to watch a film with you.

I want to listen to an artist’s work with you.

I want to look at art with you.

Then spend hours talking about these.

I love a man’s hands, I think they’re a thing of beauty. Right now I am thinking of your hands cupping my breasts, of your lips finding a nipple to suckle. I am thinking of how wet I am, rubbing against your thigh as you take me in your mouth, my fingers on your face.

I would like to be consumed like a feast, a lavish banquet laid before you, and like a fever, occupying skin and muscle and blood, a whole body devoured.

Maybe to be ravaged and ruined, to be wrecked. If only because I needed to be broken completely, so as to be put back together again. Each time a self—new and not new, but yours all the same.

Would that you can envelop me in your arms as I try to climb onto your lap. Imagine a 5’2” fat cat demanding to take up space.

Do you feel it? This wanting, deep in your bones?

Ah, but I am a shrivelled old woman who has lived for centuries, certain I have nothing else left to give. And I am a little girl begging you to take me. Take me, please.

Here is a video of strangers kissing for the first time:

I would kiss you anywhere. In this world. In my dreams. 

I am kissing you softly as you sleep, so you taste myself on your lips when you wake.

T. xx

%d bloggers like this: