Confession

Erotic.

Take the word. Break it down. Turn it like a beach stone in your hand.

Can you feel the warmth of the sun on your body? Run your finger along the stripe of pure white, innocent against the dark smoothness of it. Silken. Heavy. Like the pulse of blood as it hits your heart, sudden and remembered. Delicious. That heat that comes with it.

Erotic.

It’s such a different word than the everyday ones we use to describe those sexual feelings. Erotic conjures black and white photography, jazz music and Änais Nin. For me it is so subtle, more in the intent than the act. Details.

For example, take fucking in a car….

Fucking in a car is purely, fucking. Heated. The windows fogged, the ferocious eating of one another’s skin. Panties not removed, but roughly shoved aside. This kind of interaction will leave you with a scratch mark if you are not careful.

What is erotic in that moment is her finger marks in the condensation, which he will trace with his own. And then taking that visible wet that they have made tangible outside of their bodies, he will trace this along her shoulder blade. Carefully. Moving her hair at the back of her neck with his breath. A pause in the hunger. He marks her with love.

That is erotic. Passionate. Fierce. But filled with some tenderness that we know from touch, but can’t quite articulate.

It hardly matters if J and I are in some high geared maneuvering. There are moments when it is more than just sex, it’s erotica enacted. Or perhaps this is just what sex is. But I doubt everyone has erotic sex.

I love to watch my fingers against his skin. Disarticulated, they haunt the places that my mouth cannot reach. Gentle or angry. I enjoy their smallness, daintiness… against the more dark flesh of his body. Or how he responds to them, intake… exhale. I should have someone photograph them.

And this brings me to the real intent of this introspection….

I want to catalogue these experiences of flesh. I want to photograph the erotic minutia of sex. Her fingers in his hair. Her lips on his chest. Not the greater detail. But the intent of it. The details. Remember those? The devil is in them, my sweet.

I want to look through my own window, not seeing me… but seeing what it may be.

An ordinary fantasy I am sure… but wouldn’t the photographs be wondrous?

Erotic.



G.