Stretched out
long and lazy
on the sofa
in my study
full of Saturday.
Holding a mug
of steaming tea
in one hand
my phone
in the other.
Tapping out
these simple words
with my thumb
for me to send
and you to read
when you’re bored.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Photograph taken from the internet – source unknown. If this is yours please let me know and I will credit or remove.
My early morning
from dark to day
from slumber to surface
from stretch to shower
from clothes to kitchen
from tea to cereal
from silence to study
from words to music
from prose to poetry.
My early morning
is full
with a sense
of you.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not new – but my early morning is full with a sense of you.
Art by Theo Felizzola
She is trying to think of something else.
She works, busying herself with things that usually bore her, creating her own session of displacement therapy. She fills her day so that there is no room for idle thought.
At home she urgently flicks through magazines searching for something to steal her attention, even for a moment. She watches TV, trying to lose herself in someone else’s story. At night she closes her eyes tight shut, as if it will help.
But she cannot get the thought out of her head.
This desire to serve, this need to belong, this yearning to be his.
She has felt nothing like it before. Not for any man, least of all this complete, dark, distant stranger. Yet there is a familiarity about him, a certainty, a resonance. As if she has always known he would be there.
If she allows her imagination to escape it will swarm at her thighs, ache in her lower belly, and send a flush into her throat. It will send a delicious tingling down her spine. It will conjure up of a thousand images of her own submission that will make her weak at the knees.
It will make her mouth dry and her sex wet.
She is trying to think of something else.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Written six years ago, but I like it. And perhaps there is someone trying to think of something else right now.
Art by William Oxer
Romantic that I am, I have a softish spot for Valentine’s Day.
(Although the Dominant in me objects strongly).
Not so much for the exchange of cards, gifts and supper between those who are already lovers. I can see the romance, the affirmation, the enchantment and the intimacy – I have fallen under its amorous spell often enough. Yet one can also almost smell the commercial cynicism at this time of the year. It sucks.
No, I think what really makes February the fourteenth special is that it provides almost-strangers the perfect excuse and the ideal opportunity to flirt outrageously.
And to act dangerously.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Loui Jover
This is not a new post, but it has become almost a Valentine’s Day tradition for me to repost it around this time of year, to remind readers to be bold and to have fun.
I can pick up
the merest trace
of your pure
scent
across thousands of miles
across restless seas
across unknown geography.
It is such a poignant
potent
puissant
powerful
provocative
persuasive
perfect
pheromone
I am utterly compelled.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
I wrote this a couple of years ago. ‘I can pick up the merest trace ….’
Art by William Oxer
It was perpetual summer, richly fragrant with potent mary jane and pungent patchouli.
I was sixteen.
She was two years older – so far out of my league that she should never have even noticed me. And yet somehow I was there, amazed at my good fortune, hopelessly in love with her, and in complete awe of her friends. They were ultra hip, achingly cool and comfortably rich.
Whereas I owned the Levi’s I stood up in, a couple of faded shirts, a borrowed guitar, and my notebook of spidery poems.
There was a gentle candle-lit dinner party in one of daddy’s spare houses. The room was beamed and flagged and full of style and music. I was a pretty boy – an amusing novelty to wear like a trinket on her arm. Although I never realised that at the time.
The conversation turned to views of what a perfect partner might be. She waxed lyrical about what would excite her. Intelligence, a sense of humour, a slim, slender physique, a writer, a revolutionary, a mass of golden curls, eyes that could both command and romance. I swear she was looking at me. I thought she was talking about me. I was young, proud and special. I had smoked perhaps a little too much dope.
‘Thank you.’ I said, when she had finished.
There was moment of stunned silence before the table erupted with mocking laughter. She reached across and patted my hand.
‘Oh, darling boy. Did you think I meant you?’
I lowered my eyes, blushing fiercely, almost tearful at my own stupidity.
‘Don’t worry,’ she consoled me. ‘you are the next best thing.’ There was more laughter.
It was an instructive and humbling moment that I promised myself I would never forget.
It still lives on, all these years later, in my e-mail address:
nextthing@_________
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
I first posted this in 2012 writing about a memory of my teens that never faded. I suspect we have all had moments like these in our formative years
Photograph by Matt Eaton
She wanted to explore the world
and discover something
wild
and dangerous
rare
and exotic
pure
and beautiful
true
and intelligent
raw
and sensual.
He showed it all to her
in herself.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
First posted two years ago. Sometimes we have to be shown things about ourselves we cannot see.
Art by Scott Mattlin
