As fluid as each movement can be, my head registers it in a series of stills - stop frame camera work. I unbutton her blouse and slide my hand into her bra and see each thing so clearly - her expectant eyes watching me move, my hand invading her space, the stretching of the fabric as my hand massages her breast, her nipple hardening. Meaning layers on top of every choice as I unbutton her shirt - she becomes more and more available, shadings of the passive victim, the wanton woman, the trespass of one upon another. And the brief glimpses of her skin, the light revealing her smooth skin, wonderful wonderful skin - it's like art, the smoothness of marble sculpture with the suppleness of a warm live person - I hear her catch her breath as I pull her arms and shoulders back, opening her shirt more with her body. It's exquisite.
I can pose her so show her different facets of her woman-ness. When I pull her elbows back, she juts her breasts forward and she sees how vulnerable she is and how I make her look like she's offering herself to me. She sees herself through the lens that I want her to see and becomes objectified, and yet my goddess as well. Moving my fingers across her lips, she knows, like I do, from millions of media images how to show her mouth, the slight dropping of the jaw - the fullness of her lips, the widening of her eyes showing innocence and desire and openness - for me. 'suck my fingers, love', I whisper. She knows to look me directly in the eyes while she sucks on my fingers like she wants to swallow them, taking them deeper - she knows because every seductress has looked directly at the observer, be in a painting or into the camera lens. Since the beginning of worship, of art, of elevating the sex of the abstract woman - she becomes to embody every lover imagined, the Helen that launched a thousand ships - the siren who calls from the shore to ensnarl me and countless seekers through time.
The artist always needs to use contrast or it just becomes a study, exercise or an untitled work. I pull her unbuttoned shirt down her back so it drapes around her wrists behind her back, symbolically restraining her. Symbolism always seems to be present in our art of love. Unbuttoning her clasp in the front of her bra I pull just a little to reveal her nipples in the mirror. Her buttoned jeans intact - her upper body ravished and revealed - the contrast pulls the eyes to see her. She sees herself as well. Naked she'd be the goddess standing before me. But this, this is primal. She's been revealed, shredded of her decency, exposed - invaded to be conquered.
I have her watch in the mirror as my hands lift her breasts up in offering. No 'decent' woman offers herself so directly, I feel the heat rise on her body as she sees me groping and mauling her breasts, twisting and pulling on her nipples. Several levels above the intimacy of the bedroom, I have her watch as I lightly slap her breast several times making her nipples hard.
