In voluptuous valleys I have searched
to find your holy forest,
snooping in every crevice,
grovelling in mossy gullies,
no tunnels unentered
in this exotic exploration,
until now
you are
a rainforest
dripping and steaming,
and my arid desert
blooms again.
And all in fantasy
we cuddle close,
our female shapes clamped,
fitting snugly like
last pieces in a jigsaw.
I cross my legs,
strive to hold the throbbing,
to capture and conceal
the true nature of my appetite.
I smell the rose:
that bud I cut this morning;
please come, convulse with me
for I think
how perfectly exquisite
each fold of pink petals
represents the delicate yoni,
coaxing me to smell and taste
to seek and enter every cleft
and untouched cranny
of your female vulnerability.

Found: our mutual rhythm
from silent adagio
to waltz
to tango
to whirling
twirling
dervish,
racing, covering each other
with breathless licks,
and dexterous hands, fumbling
together we find the centre,
that famous hot spot.
This is my life’s lesson:
to learn this new sacred land,
to glorify its female beauty,
to stand on the pinnacle
and let myself be swallowed up
by the juices of a stunning Goddess.
But in sad truth
the only hands
that tease and trace
with gentle fingerings
up over bare legs,
around my buttocks,
to this pulsating mound,
are those that are smooth
like polished skin,
the caresses of an invisible
woman.