Unraveling eroticism and sensuality in textile verse while penned in COVID isolation.
Covid. That small word that conjures up fear and isolation, confusion and celibacy. Terrible, sexless living with nothing much more than some hard worked toys to assuage my aching and void body and brain.
That barren, covid world, celibate and isolated, drew me to dream of intimacy. How I dreamed. And when the batteries were drained I did what I only know to do …. I stitched. Oh, I stitched. My fingers whirled and created — from tiny fragments of sexuality, deliciously subtle or delightfully wicked and unavoidably pieces of naughty. And there were the giant belly laughs of pieces — a statuesque dick reaching out to a glorious pussy adorned in love and longing.
And I sang. Come! Sing along with me to the tune of the Twelve Days of Christmas
five dancing dicks,
three luscious lips
hun — — gry clit.
Imagine those dicks dressed in tutus, dancing in the breeze with bright lips and an exquisite homage to a pussy and smile the joy of a thousand dreams you never dreamed you had.
You can go now COVID. I can continue beautifully without you.