on being fucked by a poet (PG-13 Rating)

Warning : As the title suggest, this is going to be one of those topics your mom always warned you never to talk about or listen. it is not my intention to make u feel what you would feel after reading this particular entry, not my fault, but yours, because you chose to read it. agree?! =)

On Being Fucked By A Poet

i could say that being fucked by a male poet is something most women haven't experienced yet. the truth could be said about males being fucked by female poets, but then i know my kind, we dont care of the "fucker" (that is the one who fucks) is a poet or not, and even if she was, it does not really matter, cause a fuck is still a fuck, more more so if it is a good fuck. but going back, i would say that a poet fucker would make the whole experience more than the ordinary for the "fuckee" (the one who is getting fucked, duh!) i will try to give plausible and believable reasons for this outrageous if not seemingly-wrong statement.

of course, we have to agree that the fucker we are talking about is one of those rare and true poets. not those who write thinking that every word they write is good enough, or those who think that being tagged as a writer/poet is "cool", or those who prefer to have artistic lifestyles. i should stress that there's nothign cool about being an artiste, and its not about lifestyle: its a way of life.

since he is a real artiste, then let me assure you that he does not see the act as the simple mating and bonding of female and male flesh. he does not see your breast as mere breast. it reminds him of mountains, mountains that one gets to the peak not on a blink on an eye but each step up should be savored, endured. he sees your face as if he sees something new, something beautiful being born right before his eyes, a creation of sorts, which is actually where poets get satisfaction. he parts your legs not just top reveal your hidden treasure but with a tenderness and knowing that it is not just about a part of you that makes you worth discovering, but it is all those parts joined together, sky, earth, and wind, fire and ice and salt, waves, starlight, and so many more.

and he does not just pump into you to be merely inside you.

he goes inside you because he knows you would like to fill up a void, and he wants to be hugged, embraced in this world.

i am not a poet, yet, and perhaps i never will, so i guess i should stop writing about this.

i have to go and try to enhance my "skills" for now.... fingering skills.. on how to hold the pen when i write my cheesy mushy lovey dovey wastes i call poetry that my father P. Neruda would shun me if he ever gets to read them.

perhaps he already is.

hey, im getting late.