National Orgasm Week: A Poem for My Best Lover

By A Comeaux

I suffer from an acute case of insomnia. I don't get laid often, honestly, not since last Fall. Before that, last Spring. So my nights are typically filled with books in bed and journals of poetry where a warm body should be. This night was different. After my hot bath and red wine ritual, I was soothed and relaxed and though perfunctory, I enjoyed this 'me' time more so than loathed my loneliness.

Amidst my pandora tunes and love poems to a figment lover, I thought of my perfect orgasm. I remembered the last I was kissed to my desires weakness. I remember the last time I was taken in my lovers mouth and my very will devoured to the pleasures of my sweetest capacity. I remembered... A collage of experiences because one hadn't completed the mission single-handedly.

There was a song playing and the only light was a ray of moon. There was a scent in the air. Something in the family of lavender and chamomile. I heard my lovers voice, a faint, familiar voice say, 'Yes'... So I proceeded.

'Right there'... I heard a moan. I remembered what being touched felt like.

The warmth of a human fingertip on the delicate parts that make me a woman... 'More'... I heard... 'like this...?' Head nodding in submission. In total agreement I submerged into what I felt like was my pleasures abyss. I don't know what time it was. I don't know how long it lasted. I just, remembered what it felt like to 'feel'. To feel something electrifying that held no words or funny looks, it meant I had to let myself go... And that night, I did.

I was somewhere between the fallacy of my reality and the prepubescent stage of wet dreams... I was awake enough to know what I was doing and asleep enough to not feel foolish. I did it. I giggled the morning after. I finally did it. No traces of a lovers remains. No soreness of a raunchy bout. It was just enough passion and mystery. It was the perfect dosage with not a stroke too many.

Despite my plea, I knew how and what my body needed, without uttering a vowel of instructions...

I'd found my O when I finally realized my best lover is me.

A Comeaux

A Comeaux is the writer, speaker and actor who poetically paints pictures of life and love with a paradoxical perspective. Follow her on Twitter @KCOSpoke

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