in these moments

the way you watch me cross my bare legs as i sit at the kitchen table

the way you look like a dream lying naked on my bed awaiting my company

you draw me close, as close as you can, face to face, my full breasts against your skin

words are not needed.  they pour forth from your eyes like honey

running my fingers through your hair, pulling you in to taste your lips, you yield to me

your hand glides across my hip making its way up my fleshy inner thigh.  i yield to you

(and i would a million times more).

my fingers wrap around your silken hardness feeling the desire swell in you.  wanting it. wanting you

pleasure building.  perpetual ecstasy in the wanting, the giving, the receiving

we fall into each others eyes as i rise and fall to your touch

there is no conclusion in this meditation.  there is no need for an ending

we are here now, aware of ourselves.

we notice and unite our bodies and spirits.  heaven and earth become one.

5-12-2020

for J

the power of the crone (the wise woman)

Author: Maya Luna

If you want to be a bad ass sexually empowered woman, embrace your inner hag.
Thats right.
The crone. The ancient old woman. The witch. The hag.
The crone archetype is an aspect of the feminine not exactly associated with sexuality.
Women groom themselves to be girls. The younger the better. 
Paint those lips red and blush those cheeks like you are wet and ripe for impregnation.
Make them believe you are in perpetual ovulation.
Make them hard. Make them desire you
Get that face lift. Suck in that belly. Bat those lashes.
Guess what.
The crone doesn't give a fuck.
And that is her power.
She embraces her spider lines and swinging, sagginesss.
After all, this is what life does to the body of a woman...eventually!
Does that make you uncomfortable? Would you rather not see?
Her secret threatens to corrupt you.
She can make you wild.
She can reveal to you your power.
Your volcanic senseless holy
Once she opens her mouth, the jig is up.
They tell you she is crazy.
Dangerous because she has broken out of that jail cell you call restrictions.
How would you have sex if you didn't give a fuck about how pretty you look?
Or how flat your stomach is?
The crone is not an object of desire.
She is free to claim her own desire.
In a world that praises women for being objects of desire.
Where the more lust you can seduce the more value you possess, the crone is laughing with that cackle that only women of power have.
She does not possess the enchanting beauty of the maiden or the fertile reproductive juices of the mother.
She no longer bleeds. She no longer bares children.
Her sex no longer waxes and wanes with the moon, gaining and draining energy with each passing tide.
She is full.
The portal to her blood has been sealed.
She is drinking in the nectar. She is bathing in its luminous darkness.
Her sex is a diamond pressed and polished by years of experience and wisdom.
She has passed through all the phases of initiation as a woman.
That heavy web of social conditions all feminine creatures are baptized into.
She is unraveling herself from these webs.
She has liberated her sex from all their stories.
She is making it to the other side.
Freeing herself.