WELCOME TO MY SEXY HAVEN!

Three simple words poetically describe the action, the setting, and the preparation for the most natural and passionate act known to all living creatures. As the sexiest lyrical line ever crooned in one of my most favorite country songs spawns the creation of this pictorial land of hotness and passion, I believe the title is self-explanatory so I know you can imagine the utter beauty your eyes will behold as you navigate through each and every one of these visually musical splendors.

Thursday, September 9, 2021

I Wish My Name Began With An "R"


I don't know much else about Emily Dickinson other than she was a poet and that most of her work was published after she died, found locked away in her house, but I did read a historical fiction series where she was a minor character who fell in love with one of the major character's sisters. I don't if Miss Dickinson likin' women is historically accurate, but it was an interestin' take on this time in the world.

Here's some more erotic poetry:

“Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes” by Billy Collins

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer’s dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women’s undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything –
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.

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