Latching onto premature euphoria to try to calm down the CNS tends to be infatuatingly satisfying. Bantering is infatuatingly satisfying. Infatuating occasionally is infatuatingly satisfying.

We search to be with,

and to love,girls and women.

Because they are feminine;

because they aren’t men.

We desire girls,

and women,

because we like

we love

we enjoy

their delicate softness –

the touch,

the taste of their lips;

the smell of their breath,

their body;

the warm softness of their breasts,

and their arms as they embrace and hold us close.

We love and truly enjoy

their very femininity,

that which makes them female.

We love the way they laugh

and how they smile,

the very way they look.

I cherish them because they are like me, us, cause they know our pain, our vanity, our needs, our weaknesses, our insecurities and our worries and well, cause we can share our innermost secrets with them.

We love them, we desire them, because they are not men.

For we don’t search to find in them what makes a man a man.

Thus, we tend to have no time for those women who profess to be like men, but who imitate, want to be like, or even be, inside like a man.

Such women, are not feminine enough, often, these days such women adopt our life as some political role, a rebellion kind of, against the status quo.

The, this, masculine paternalistic status quo that has compelled us generation after generation, centuries and decades, to hide ourselves away, to often be a deep well of loneliness, until, fortunately or perchance, we chance upon someone like us whom we love and to choose to gently coax to love us, to share the joys of such a gentle intimate sharing that I, or everyone everywhere will ever know.

For, naturally, it’s just the gentle touch of a woman I desire, we desire, that we need.

Her delicate, soft kiss.

The intricate and delicate softness of her body and the very way she may lie in our arms for hours.

Or occasionally, once fulfilled, we’re off, off to some work, to some hobby, off to some new interest or to chase some new desire.

Hence, it’s just that, our very way of loving, of desiring, marks our esoteric manner of doing things.

There is, then, for all of us – that feminine empathy, that fore-seeing, that intuitive wyrdful knowledge, that marks us, so that our rites, our cultures, way of lives, even countries are feminine also.

A gentle, flowing dance, perhaps, where bodies softly touch, to music.

A kind of spell chanted as we share with our lover the delights of our flesh, naked body to naked body as moonclad under the stars of the night or within some warm scented room, we, by touch or kiss, bring ourselves to spasm after spasm of joy such as none may ever know.

Even our curses, are just gentle affairs of the mind, body and heart as if we have sent forth some nightingale of death to carry our message and our meaning as some gentle, beautiful, haunting, yet fatal song, so that our victims expire simultaneously feeling that beauty, that softness, within us, and only too late, far too late, know their lives for the strident wrongness it has been.

Death, revenge, enwrapped within a subtle softness and a feminine beauty.

Yet, with that lover, we are subtle, yet strong.

For she is the embodiment of the very essence of woman, that need no make some show of or boast about our prowess, rather veil it.

No need for words, for the verbal diarrhoea of words that common folk seem to send forth, pleased as they seem to be with their harsh barbaric voices.

No, for us there is often and instead wordless sharing when eyes meet, fingers lightly touch, and the essence of what makes us us, seeps out to touch another of our kind.

Of natural musks and perfumes and labour of sweats, a conundrum of sorts when we unwind.

We love, we enjoy delicate softness.

We love nature as she herself is and as we find Her.

I don’t desire to decimate and destroy Her, to dominate Her.

Instead I empathise, I love, I leave her alone in her reverence, as I tend to try to leave the world alone until some harshness or some wrong afflicts or harms us and our kindred, and then, then indeed I, we, are gentle no more, for there is nothing more subtle, nothing more dangerous, sinister and nothing more deadly in its passion then us, our uni and darkly sinister kind, awakened and so empathetically aroused.

Eeh…that’s all for now!!


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