by Elizabeth Klaviter
(07/02/08)
Every man has his own style of love.
Not just the actual making of love, not just the fuck but also the pre-fuck and post-fuck and getting me to the stage where I'm willing to fuck, fuck. That's what I'm talking about.
I have been with panthers. The slow, low stalking predators, who might just take a bite out of you and leave you a little worse for the wear.
The matadors where you know at the end someone is going to end up dead. But, oh, what a dance it is until the finish.
The street fighters with the armored biceps who polish me like the beloved mustang they just built from the ground up.
But you are not a matador, you are not a panther. You are not street.
You, sir, you are a painter. A beatnik painter. A heavy boozing, paint splashing, cigarette smoking,
testosterone driven, heterosexual beat painter. Your friends are Pollack and Kerouac,
and when we fuck, you might just be trying to change the world
Your nimble fingers and crazy intense gaze and tireless examination as you study in maddening detail every intricacy and nuance of your medium. Me. How my mind works. How my body works. How my emotions work. Every fucking detail. Nothing uninteresting. Because even the minutia of me fits into your design.
It's in your eyes, the intent stare, the sitting and admiring of me. Not just me. But your work on me. Your work of me. Me, your work of art.
Canvas
My body is your canvas
My emotions your palate
My cries your orchestra
Create with me
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux