Surprise Me Sexy

Surprise is the trick to erection. Haphazardly contrive a surprise and take it through its limits: be prepared to go all out and produce full-rounded reactions of the green and red kind. Initiate and trigger the clicks of the impatient clitoris. Make it wet snappily! And never release your myopic, hypnotic executions until the great act of sex and love is as wasted on the floor as both your sweat-soaked naked bodies, under the half-light of lusty moonlight, and tacky blinking flourescent. Bringing the bacon home to its real lady master, who sits on the throne of the major and minor labias, smashes her expectations, changes her taut schedule, dizzies her and puts her out to sea with a violent jolt, to lose herself in the thralls and slashing waves of your passion, the whirls of your Machiavelian savoir-faire.

Surprise is the tool for fluidal spontaneity. So do not stop when you start. When you start do not stop. More, more, more: Hit it/her: she's stunned, go forth! and multiply the punches to her psyche. Rip her clothes off! Tear her undergarments to shards of dreary confetti, they are instruments of containment and oppression! Bring her down to the dark of the floor and make her rest in uncomfortable places filled with corners and blunt protrudencies. Introduce her to pain, to the flirtation of death, arouse her fantasies of destruction. Make her feel like a mammal about to be sacrificed, and you are dressing her with your saliva and sweat and she's assisting unsconsciously by coloring her hide red with just-unchained awakened guilt. Let the objects under her leave marks: sigils of approval for the carnage and horrific pleasure-land ahead. Do not stop, do not stop, if only to breath and punctuate the war. Have no doubt: this is a war! Spears and shields, swords and traps, wands and cups! Mental mazes, feigning strategies, sexy attacks of surround! This is ancient: Where the winner is the loser and the loser the winner.

Surprise is the signature of climactic expression. She's down but she's not out. Pounce baby pounce baby pounce! She thinks she's in for it, she thinks it's soon; it's coming: IT'S NOT. Retract: surprise through retreat. Don't give in to speed, to the calls of the weak belle-kitty-femme splattered on the floor of her own well of psychology. Retract your tongue and allow her pores to catch up to some oxygen; the animal is ready / but the animal is not ready. Conquer her through your silence, your slowness, your quiet calm rules over her naked pink skinscape. She will yearn, crave, call you names of praise then bludgeon your ego with hard words like GAY or FAGGOT or AMATEUR or COCKSUCKER or MATCH STICK but your cool will be kept and your eyes, each of which will speak for themselves, will say, FUCK!, and the other, YOU!, and your lips will underline their statement in harsh, barbarian sotto: SHUT UP! then sweetly, underbreath: MY BITCH! As sweet as Hitler would have said it. Now, you are done with the ego, move on to the being beneath it. To it a favor: Hurt it.

Surprise is the equivalent of blood, bones and congressions. Slap her face. Respect the sun gods as Apollo respects your cave and the moons and satellites trapped there, as he respects the shine of your own unquenchable modern horniness, a stellar creature long since imprisoned by neo-ropes of middle class tradition. And slap her again, teach her the scrolls of knowledge pregnant in each of the digits of your thick manly hand. Push her down, press on her the texture of your design by burdening her with the uncomfortableness of her position. Her body will applaud you through spasms; she is not fighting, it only appears that way--you know women--she wants more: slap her a third. Ah, her ego is bruised, but women's egos are denser, tougher than the toughest skins of partially cooked meat, louder than Jupiter's fat ass in the sky: she's bruised, but bruise her some more: Slap! her a fourth time. Ow, she might say, and she might mean it, but what word came out of a woman that wasn't bladed doubly? She. Only. Wants. More. The blood, that red juice, it's the external eggcell in floods as flags declaring MORE MORE MORE hit me some more! Slap her a fifth, shut up that stupid bitch! She doesn't know what she wants--thrust at her her needs.

Surprise is the parting of convention and the surrendering to exclamation. She's dreaming, with the Sandman and a dead Barbara Streisand, whose nose she wants: for your penis she can't have. Now is the time to insert. At that point on the cliff when she means suicide and has believed in your lie. This is when you insert...only the tip of its head...use this...it's a trick, a gesture of simplicity; tease; play; linger; lull; this move is soft-core drugs, the hard will come soon after...but not till a while...when on the verge of familiarity, withdraw: fuck her. These last two words she'll spill in mumbling druidic singsong. Don't give in, but give in; hand her your penis. Allow her hands to caress and smooth that magical weapon of creation, this wand and sword of will and imagination: she may take it upon her fingers and touch it and feel it and know its power. She may acquaint herself with the mark of your god, and she may pray to it in silence or stupor, but her heart you will hear chant: fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me--One hundred and twenty two FUCK MEs a minute. You will shove an iceberg-cold shoulder to all these ancient requests and control her movements on your little master. She is your slave. They all are.

Surprise is the food of sex, of the gods and goddesses and of the devils inside us that turn us on. When she's happy with this, as soon as she is happy with this: take it away. And dunk it between her teeth and lips. Up and down, go. She's still in that nirvana-hell-stupor and won't realize she's eating god-food until seconds of subconscious pleasure coalesces and coagulates and awakes her once-again eager hungry horny sex animal within, her true self. Then her lips will lock and you will let her. Then her teeth will shyly graze the tube of all life and you will like it and let her. But do not love it. Love her, you may, IT you may not: there is the war to consider. You must not lose/ you must lose (yourself)! Now, YOU rest, and she rides the spring of machoness and honor (whose shadow is righteousness) with the saddles of her tongue and the reins of her soft circular lips. Up and down, like the tune of the drama of all life, she goes, an endless performance of grand symbolism. Woman eating man, man kissing woman: together an ouroboros out of an Aztec's mushroom encrusted imaginings. We are Snake. Cuts of the same serpent. Scales of human make, eyes of Eden suns, energies of gods and goddesses, rulers of all creation, convoluting and pulsating madly like street dogs in heat under the hot white Helios.

Surprise is the mimed magical dance of intelligent pseudo-planning and boisterous sporadicalness. She is now terrified; her bones report to her the vulnerableness of their position, but what can obelisks do to upturned triangles but destroy them (it's their purpose?)? But eat she continues, appreciative of the ambrosia-snack. Then a hand reaches in deep into the woods of her hair and collects a bouquet of black thick strands, trapping them then pulling them, pulling up her head, her lips away from the bone. You look at her, she looks pathetic--and you think, soon: we will exchange expressions. She is down again, against books and toys and sharp whatnots that remind you you're alive and you can feel. Her oyster is consumed and regurgitated, consumed and regurgitated; and the smell of seafood is both pleasant and repugnant, and you love and abhor, love and abhore it. And you get drunk on the sea underneath the folds that keep the secret slit (or the slit secret). Bless Poseidon, this was one monster that bore his genius, this black hairy triangular grape-topped oyster cake. A magickal cake that would never leave you hungry nor ever serve you until you were full. A grand trick, as guile-filled as a lawyer's wordy contract, yet as sweet as a Kotzwinkle erotica. She's blessed to have this treasure chest of textures and wreaks and smells that produce inspiring and flagrant reactions within the bosom of each imagination. I get drunk, and now, I lose my power: to win you must lose...---

Surprise is intensity in the purest language; the spark of creation. She is in control; I, her slave. She is the controller now: editor of environment, intensity, rhythm, texture, smells: etc. She has learned from me. From us. And now, the moon burns like the sun in a doomsday, summer rage. I melt, into myself, close to the seabed of my consciousness as she plunges my totem into the black hole where not even our lust can escape. She is now the man, the cowgirl in outer space riding the rocket off in circles around planets and moons and asteriod littorals, and the astrological symbols that had bound her. She's off now, chasing comets in hyperspeed and pumping me slow like a re-converted nun's first time go at it. She is intuned with the universe: she IS the universe: and Lucifer is at her feet, chain-linked within the unseen spherical prison of ecstasy and sugary defeat. She is now Goddess; I mere mortal, dying in pleasure, deeper and deeper with love and warmth--warm, moist pleasure, sinking, and sinking into the void of nonentity and oneness and divinity.

Surprise will get you up, leave you up, finish you off at the right time before shovelling you back to earth. She is now pumping hard and fast, impersonating the Industrial Revolution's birth; like there is no tomorrow for two people in mad vertigo-love. She, the Goddess, is provoking my awakening. Mastering my soul into a sculpture of her design, upwards, cascading into the converging point. This is to contrast my roughness; a soft-hard answer to my "first word" (that first paragraph above), that first burst of titilating surprise. It is her stage, her time now, her honor to perform; it is hers, this leatherland of skin I may call eggshell to my universe. Within the layers of flesh, floods of blood, corridors of bone, lies the elements that comprise the composition of my very being, what I am "about". And here she dances with these elements through the use (abuse) of my penis as a phallicism. The gravity! of her actions; the antiquity of her sex's voice by slap and wallop! The mammmal tangoes with a black hole--

Surprise will kill the evil spirits of dullness and cobwebbed patterns of your grand parents. Slow, she goes...slow, like a child's interpretation of the first experience of rainfall. She orders you to move suddenly, this way and that way, mixing in her mind what would work, running through her instincts what would please the gods of pleasure, of life, of beautifull perversity; settling on a strange position of mutual, explosive, creamy texture. The sword and sheath renew their violent bass dance. The Indians danced for rain; we fuck to come; may the cum come, may the cum come! She is enjoying her power; she is the goddess, queen of all within the bed of blunt objects which I now use as ruined throne. I wait for rain to fall.

Surprise is the conqueror of tyrannical mudanity and the queen-king of pleasure. She thinks she is in touch with the goddess, without thinking she is; tapping on that blessed energy from a loosely mapped nonspacial source. This ancient brutality stems from all the seeds of creation and is a language understood by the body in the heat of procreation, or even just fucking, or swinging. The Devil is in the math; it is his expertise to be the unsung values between "ahh", "ohh", "o shit", and all the rest of it: Coming down to "condescend" a kiss to her prisoner, she rises, violently, erect again. The whip of her back--whose aftereffect is the whip of her comet-shaped hair--to return to her teachings atop--up and down: rhythmic loop--the pillar of men and mine. She is taking me far, to the ends of the 5 sensorial receptor's evaluation, down and up and up and down--fluctuating in ribbons of motion--towards the lost, untravelled lands of real freedom of expression.

Surprise will jumpstart you, pounce and devour silly expectations only to produce golden excrements of lemony sweetness and floral imagery. She scratches her amorphous resolutions on my chest, and leaves lines of wet red that drip to my sides and tickle me with their journey. I love this, I love her; but I can't right now: now is a time for war, and sentimentality will cost you mountains of psychedelic deliciousness and soul-educative bonking. Unexpectedly, I lunge, take the controls and the postures of power from her. Surprise can come in many ways. The variances of the sex-session's stories--it's written in pseudo-mime, with grunts as sign posts to where they've been and are going to; the logic of speed used as fuel, of pressure as insurance to conversational limbs and organs; of the talent to hit the marks in the sacred cave that require hard (or soft) touchability. These things and more require a "no mind" mentality, a state necessary in the practice of worshiping each other. I grab her hair and pull her down, and her face is pushed down against the tiled floor surround. The back door to the Temple, I enter. Her one monk, the one they call The Button, is smiling widely.

Surprise is the ruler on the hill who tripped Jack and Jill; his name is Fun, whose unproven etymological genes stem from Pan, the god, the first party-host and -goer, and the father of Ferris Bueller.