obscenity

My life has been the poem I would have writ,

But I could not both live and utter it.

~ Henry David Thoreau

She told me that she loves me an obscene amount.  I’ve been thinking about this for days now, what that might even begin to mean, to be loved obscenely, what an obscene sort of love might be.

Something described as obscene is excessive to the point of offense to one’s tastes, it’s a little taboo, a little too much, a little too wanton and needing, more than required, more than deserved, but given and taken with abandon in case supply would ever run dry.  It’s a sort of dangerous attachment, a sort of begging trust, a leaning on one another to a too-scary point…  I get this image of two lovers with outstretched arms reaching over a chasm, looking to lock fingers, tipping over, reaching too far, falling…  catching each other, pressing against each other, bridging together, preventing each other’s fall…

And that’s the obscenity and absurdity of it, no?  They can’t let go, or they tumble into the chasm.  They can’t head back, because of the unforgiving pact they had to strike with balance.  It’s obscene in it’s very existance, this tableau, offensive because of it’s dichotomy: dire impracticality of position struck against the happy, satisfied smiles of lovers having finally found their other.

Who are we to smile when so precariously placed?

Who are you to suggest our feet should ever, EVER falter, that our fingers would ever let go?

She is more than I can ever deserve.

Maybe our love is obscene, and maybe it should be, maybe all love that’s real, and honest, needs to be a little obscene to break through the banality and let itself be heard and felt and be real.  I don’t think a lone person can judge the quality of, and label a thing ‘obscenity,’ I think there’s an element of socialization involved – if we are obscene, we are obscene to the world’s tastes.

And that’s a particular set of senses and sensibilities I’m all too happy to offend.

I joked to her that a love like ours gives love back to the gods, that all our happy, silly, impossible smiles and smiling possibilities does generate something, a tangible feeling, presence, aura that keeps us wrapped and enveloped, our message excitable and still undelivered…  and again, how obscene!  All these words, my push and pull and thrust and struggle to explain us, I feel her here beside me, around me…  and when the words bleed off the page, as my mind and eyes wander to her side and to feast on her sides, I want, and I want her obscenely, to peel at her layers and taste of her skin and keep her so offensively close and for so offensively long a time.

Watch me kiss her and see how she’ll shudder at my touch and gentle requests.

Using the male, being female, we enter the world and offend all, blasphemous even to the gods, as they behold a love that they too, lack.

So be offended, you lookers on and onlookers.  Be wildly offended at our love and our needs and our fulsome sensualities, and continue to be offended until you feel enough of a stirring to notice that parched taste in your mouth, that quiet and maddening thirst for an obsession you can rightfully and righteously live for.

Tell me again how obscene we are and will be, when you too find that hunger, when you hunger for another the way my soul screams for her hands and her mouth and her love.

Tell me with a smile how your woman tastes to you, or better, tell her instead, let her know just how you lust and linger over thoughts of her, watch her blush and then kiss the fire off her reddening cheeks.

Be human, be a man, love a woman, and love her obscenely.  Love each other as obscenely as you can.  I implore you, I promise it’s right.

She showed me it’s right.

~ Driz

~ by drizitche on August 30, 2009.