i've studied tantra, invested thousands into certifications and courses centered around physiology, psychology, and philosophy, but only fatherhood taught me the art of holding a woman like she is the threshold every soul crawls through to taste sunrise.
the masculine urge to break the bed
while building a life where her
pleasure is treated like
poetry
instead of
an apology.
i’m a simple man.
all i want is to be the man
her inner little girl
feels safe enough to play around.
the man her wild woman
feels wet enough to pounce on.
the man her future self
still thanks god for choosing.
call it a foot fetish if you want,
but i just wanna massage the ache
out of the soles that carried her
through hell,
until her toes curl
beneath my worship,
her hips levitate
back up to the heavens,
and the serpent in her spine
feels safe enough to dance again.
you can’t love a woman like her
unless you’ve been to the underworld
and left flowers on your own grave.
her skin carries
the glow of a woman
who has melted every mask
the world wanted her to wear
to earn their warmth
and resurrected
as her own sun.
hair messy, lips swollen,
no pants, eyes that dare me
to remember every death it took
to deserve this moment.
i forget what decade it is,
what body i’m in,
like time itself
is bleeding out between us.
witchcraft. absolute, witchcraft.
they say there’s a red thread
tying her and i together
across lifetimes.
and i swear
i saw it last night:
that little iron-scented string of spit
refusing to let go of the moment
she could taste her power
on my tongue,
sticky with proof
that the deepest bonds
are sealed in blood.
eating it from the back because
the muse prefers creative angles.
nothing motivates me more
than hearing her moan
don't stop.
guess you could say:
i'm a lover by instinct,
artist by consequence.
~ Christopher Sexton
while building a life where her
pleasure is treated like
poetry
instead of
an apology.
i’m a simple man.
all i want is to be the man
her inner little girl
feels safe enough to play around.
the man her wild woman
feels wet enough to pounce on.
the man her future self
still thanks god for choosing.
call it a foot fetish if you want,
but i just wanna massage the ache
out of the soles that carried her
through hell,
until her toes curl
beneath my worship,
her hips levitate
back up to the heavens,
and the serpent in her spine
feels safe enough to dance again.
you can’t love a woman like her
unless you’ve been to the underworld
and left flowers on your own grave.
her skin carries
the glow of a woman
who has melted every mask
the world wanted her to wear
to earn their warmth
and resurrected
as her own sun.
hair messy, lips swollen,
no pants, eyes that dare me
to remember every death it took
to deserve this moment.
i forget what decade it is,
what body i’m in,
like time itself
is bleeding out between us.
witchcraft. absolute, witchcraft.
they say there’s a red thread
tying her and i together
across lifetimes.
and i swear
i saw it last night:
that little iron-scented string of spit
refusing to let go of the moment
she could taste her power
on my tongue,
sticky with proof
that the deepest bonds
are sealed in blood.
eating it from the back because
the muse prefers creative angles.
nothing motivates me more
than hearing her moan
don't stop.
guess you could say:
i'm a lover by instinct,
artist by consequence.
~ Christopher Sexton
