WARNING: the following blog-post is about sex, especially gay sex; if the subject matter might offend, please do not continue reading.
Those of you who have been following my blog are probably aware of my difficulties in finding a sexual partner. For BADD2012, Blogging Against Disablism Day, I wrote Sexual Eunuchs? about being gay and disabled, discriminated against twice by society at large and by the so-called gay community. Then for BADD2013 I scribed No Sex Please, We're… Disabled!, which hopefully highlighted some of the logistical difficulties in arranging a sexual liaison.
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Those of you who have been following my blog are probably aware of my difficulties in finding a sexual partner. For BADD2012, Blogging Against Disablism Day, I wrote Sexual Eunuchs? about being gay and disabled, discriminated against twice by society at large and by the so-called gay community. Then for BADD2013 I scribed No Sex Please, We're… Disabled!, which hopefully highlighted some of the logistical difficulties in arranging a sexual liaison.
Well, a few months back, whilst on my annual sojourn in Spain, I finally - and fantastically - met a chap who was willing to play with this disabled writer. After more than eleven years without experiencing coitus, I truly felt like Madonna's virgin, "touched for the very first time". A tad nervous, to be sure. And giddy as an adolescent again too!
Thankfully, the lover and myself hit it off and we were able to have several days/nights of fun and games together. Yes, we had to pause to let cramps, muscle-spasms or stabbing pains pass. Yes, some positions proved impossible with my bone, joint and muscle issues relating to my various arthritic conditions. Yes, we had to pause so as I could regain my breath due to exertional apnœa. And yes, we had to stop for rest-breaks and sleeps, because of the ME/FMS. Through all this, though, we: laughed; gasped; giggled; chatted; kissed; and all the other things that lovers usually do. We had a lot of fun and parted chums. I was thankful for being able to both give and receive sexual pleasure once again. Mostly I was overjoyed to have tactile pleasure. I cannot say I did not want the sexual intercourse, as I very desperately did; but I was happiest at having someone to embrace and to cuddle me. I miss that intimacy.
Naturally, apart from my bodily fluids, my creative juices began flowing. As is my usual modus operandi, over several days I drafted a poem in my head, before finally typing it out and making final amendments and redactions.
What I wrote is neither poetry nor prose: it is somewhere in between. I have occasionally written other pieces that cross-over the two genres. Is it prosaïc poëtry or poëtic prose?
Naturally, apart from my bodily fluids, my creative juices began flowing. As is my usual modus operandi, over several days I drafted a poem in my head, before finally typing it out and making final amendments and redactions.
What I wrote is neither poetry nor prose: it is somewhere in between. I have occasionally written other pieces that cross-over the two genres. Is it prosaïc poëtry or poëtic prose?
White…
White: the virginal page, upon which nought has yet been written; under the hand-scribed or typed words.
White: the spume of the sea, tickling the sand and giggling in a low susurrus; exhibitionist surf crashing on the rocks; the once-shy now wild white-horses frolicking in the sunshine and the salty brine; sea-angels coruscating whilst they play in the isthmus between water and air.
White: the clouds occasionally slipping through the habitual cerulean firmament; the blanket occasionally blocking the sun from view.
White: all the flowers in my garden - alegría, geranium, rose, cyclamen, kalanchoë, marguerite, snapdragon,…
White: the sense of peace, calm, tranquility, clear-headedness, purity.
White: the froth on our coffees; the head on our beers; the wine we daily drank, and supped, imbibed and got drunk upon; libation unto we demi-gods.
White: all my bedding, your sheets and pillow-cases enveloping our hot, our cold, our fevered shells; your bathroom’s sanitaryware taking away our bodies’ unwanted fluids and detritus; your soft, warm towels drying our skin and hair.
White: the hairs amongst the silken grey and black on your head, your chest and my favourite hirsute spot, the wee hollow between your shoulders and neck.
White: your buttock cheeks, sandwiched between your lobster-red torso and firm legs.
White: the little jewel sewn on your puce rosebud.
White: the cum that spilled across your salt & pepper’d chest this morning; mimicking a champagne explosion and creating an ephemeral œuvre; becoming diaphanous and then invisible as it soaked into your hungry flesh; disappearing as you from me, all except memory.
White.
