It’s after midnight and I’m curled up in the green velvet chair I never sit in writing in an old leather notebook I never write in, skimming over the many thoughts in my mind one of which is that I’m so tired I can’t sleep, another marvels at the fact that despite my exhaustion something in me is still highly aroused. Pouring a glass of crisp Australian wine, I down two large swallows letting the cool liquid slide over my throat and seep into my bloodstream. It happens quickly as I’ve not eaten since I grabbed some noodles and tea at lunch. Rarely am I up so late but there are thoughts of you shifting around in the shadows, someone I have not yet met but feel I have known intimately for all my life. A man or a woman or an apparition or perhaps all three, I think of you, somehow, as a manifestation of something I cannot name but wish to worship at its dark forbidden altar. You drink in my words like licking honey as it drips from my fingertips and just as I melt in response to watching your divine mouth sucking on me, your tongue sliding up and down the length of my fingers, your throat pulsing and flexing as you swallow my sticky sweetness hard, you pull the black satin ribbon from my hair and use it to tie my hands firmly behind my back. I am not able to write, I am no longer in control, which causes my heart to race in my chest as I bend my neck and lower my eyes to the wooden floorboards. Tipping my chin up, you place a finger in my mouth and ask me if I enjoy writing erotica. Flooded with sensations which make it hard to breathe, I nod, unable to speak as you keep the pressure upon my tongue, eyes wide and fixed upon yours gazing down at me. I know you have posed this question because you already know the answer. You have known it for quite some time and so have I but humans are intricate creatures, full of mazes, twists and turns, corners, edges, fixations. What is erotic for some is disturbing for others, while for others still the disturbance is what gets them off. I am writing for you on this very late night because I have been a servant of the sensual all my life. Such is the lifeblood of the poetess. And as you stand before me, observing my nakedness, my eagerness, the fear swirling in my burning desire, you can see the flames dancing behind my eyes, and you do not look away. I can see the wicked in your smile. How it excites me. I can hear what your body wants, what your soul craves, I have heard it calling to me for ages. I have waited for a long time now, to speak of these thick passions, these heady secrets. And as is true for so many desires people try to restrain themselves from touching, the longer I have waited, the hungrier I have become.