WARNING: the following blog-post is about sex, especially gay sex; if the subject matter might offend, please do not continue reading.
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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?
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.
