cage love

The wave builds. First a gathering of energy as if it were a whirlpool, collecting, swirling, joining.  The energy is coming from her knee.  It’s a radiant energy soaked up by the head of my penis, as trapped as it is in its little cage, connecting with knee like a face to the sun that dares not get closer without being scorched.

The cage is the mote beyond which my excitement is denied.  The drawbridge stands impassable as the demands of the needy warriors build higher, stronger.  Pushing now with nervous trembles into her knee, protected by the very plastic armour I willingly adorned, fooling myself with the idea it would control the tension.

Without warning the drawbridge is dropped!  The rope that held it, cut from within.  As close to bursting as the penis was, the prostate’s power explodes from a secret cannon, overwhelming it and gathering in all.  And the contractions it brings are radiating love back to the mother as I lie beside her.  And aftershocks of love.

Then calming and crawling in, snuggling, suckling.  I go back to the beginning.  My beginning.  Not who they told me I was but who I was.  So, was it a memory of my beginning?  Yes.  But this memory was an adventure that departed the outside world where it meets the inner edge of reason, and let feelings and fantasies lead the way to a welcoming soul.

My soul stood with me in tall grass of a balding mountaintop, and showed me the land from which I came, took me each step of the way back, but to a different time, a different mother… the real mother, a new home.