Wet Season

Soaked in the eternal rain of the island wet season – my pussy was synchronising with it, flowing with more nectar than blood, though sometimes the two infused.
I had definitely found a vein. I was getting a direct infusion of the delight and soft timing of everything unfolding.

This volcanic soil had become a terrain to return to over and over, to soak and gasp and be caressed. Human, animal and plant matter conjoined to make this island a multidimensionally textured whole. It had a special vibration of fluid body language, even the traffic flowed like a river, in ebbs and flows, through trickles and dams.

I was here to surrender to the exhilaration of dance.

The ways we move, the patterns we breathe

-it touches me, the way you touch me.
When your shoulder slides down and takes a sudden left turn and my hips follow,
lean in, roll over, fly – touch the heaven and then the earth.

We, the dancers, are fluid, even in stillness listening for the path of least resistance, tracing the secret whispers of electrons in empty space.

He moved across the floor, perpendicularly, away – waiting for my response, whether we’d pull apart or blend in for a journey, sensing if there was something to be moved through. I sensed his shape as he entered the space and shapeshifted into the melody of my body’s arc, a subtle enquiring presence an inch apart from my skin, pausing, pulsating – like a lure. And my fingertips said yes, I carved them slowly around his ankle, gently pulling my body with him, toward the next impulse, raising my head to meet the knee and the thigh, without finding his gaze but suddenly lifted by his tilted pelvis to the next momentum. We merged into the stream of bodies dancing across the floor, some of the sweat polishing the wood would be ours.

Hypnotized by the shapes of humanity that night, I slipped into fantasizing about his hands on my body in a more intimate way and felt my lips open.

I reached out. And once that call was answered – he did invite me to his house – even if I tried to warn him… my unfolding was a generous dose of poetry, motion, sensation, void, sound, skin bites and moist, tender tongues.

Perhaps we were just exchanging bacteria and fungi? Allowing two viral currents to exchange codes, a soil of a distant land that fed me as child meeting the soil of another distant land where he’d dug his nails into dirt. Our bodies were vehicles for microbiome – the bacteria and cells imposing their chemical will upon us.

Or was it inevitable, on multiple levels of existence, that we exchange creative fluids?

We stripped.

The music flowed like a slow mud pool, it got hot and sweaty real quick but the indulgence of flesh was compelling. I felt the energetic match, the satiation of skin on skin as his fingers held me in a grip. I engulfed his member and got lost in the sensations of my throat, opening and receiving, slurping and suckling – and we switched, and he trapped my clit to a tight hold between fingers and lapped it up. Two digits slipped in, massaging the inner caverns of my being, I whimpered and cried of delight – it had been too long. “You’re a really good receiver” he spoke out – and I did just that – received, moaned, opened until I rolled over the edge to the viking hymn of timelines and paths crossing, dissolving, overlapping, lapping…

I let him indulge me, penetrate me, ride me, feel me, there was only the sensation of skin caressed, the walls of my innards at moments tense, but softening. Remembering something PROFOUNDLY fundamental: A lover, I was a lover, I had a lover, how important it is to have LOVERS. Every BODY deserved this caress.

In a natural state of psychedelia, expanding out of the present tense into other dimensions I rode him, I devoured him, I let my pussy suckle just as my mouth had, vibrating and luxuriating, fast and slow, to the brink of ecstasy and over…

This precious moment filled with altered states, bodies quivering, satiated, drunk. I was OPEN to the world, energetically blasted across the horizon and finally arrived at the shore.

“Life can’t be just sucking and fucking” I heard a whisper from the mouth of an old love, the one who had destroyed me. But what if it was?

What if that was the SOURCE code? and we could tap it – not carelessly, but with great talent. And over and over we would be drunk on this feeling, this satiation and another wave of hunger. Sex was so much alike food.

I could learn to go without. The destroyer had made me starve.

This island ecosystem was full of little nutrients and fish circling the corals – everywhere metaphors of abundance. I danced like an octopus – morphing into each human’s unique language, their movement and style, their emotion and texture, we’d be in the flow of the great current of life for a moment, together.

An organism. An orgasm.

Maybe life needed more contact, more dance, more oceanic flow – less individuation.

This new lover bared me his soul, as we slumbered in the aftermath of the symphony of flesh, by playing me the music he’d composed. It was beautiful and rolled like a wave over me. I respired, inspired, and my capacity to receive grew as I dissolved my separateness. The whole world became oceanic.

“Beware of attachment”, whispered the destroyer.

Was there anything to hold on to? That beautiful feeling, the tapping of source code, that delicious hunger for a particular piece of flesh, could it easily and safely be multiplied and inclusive of many flavours? Could we be a blossoming coral reef of delicate lovers? Trusting our cellular instincts to direct us in the sub-surface jungle of biomes.

-With some tact perhaps, yes – this dissolution of single self to an organism of desires and urges was the closest place I’d been to an orgiastic nirvana. It didn’t matter whose body it was, as each dance was unique to a moment arising between us, all part of a greater membrane, humanity’s skin, soaking, no mind or story, a festival of fluid and bacteria.

Impulse to next, we adjust, we move with the current, like fish do, sometimes together, at other times following a craving all our own. A karmic notch. Were we, the lovers, the dancers, a special breed of outcasts, the 10% who would choose to indulge all day, all night, frivolous and open to the caresses of strangers. Was the tantric thread weaving through us a niche cult of the most indulgent ones?

Was sex still sacred to us?

Or was it in fact the only innocence we had?

An orgasm would make me forget all the bad in the world.

It was only the stories that followed that ruined it all.

That exposed the bedrock of our wounds and flaws and all the violence we had endured on our way to this moment – it would cause us to disconnect. The insatiability of hunger would feed obesity, the thirst for power the need to dominate, the obsessive curiosity distorted into stalking the crave for fame, and nostalgia for lost loves birthed exclusion and comparisons. Yet the sword of words forged from fear hurt us the most – it sliced into our psyche and etched to memory.

My pussy was still shedding those imprints – the lovers who had worshipped and then discarded me. And I cried in that moment just before ecstasy rushed me into oblivious bliss because I recalled how simple, profound and primordial pleasure is – and how many ways we distort it, steal it and control it, though it belongs to all.

How precious are first encounters – savour them. I was entrenched in learning a new body language, soaking in the unique mould of this statue before me. Swimming in the excitement of discovery, my pussy was an open gateway, a portal that had closed, wintered, shut the world out – and now our organism was coming alive again, remembering the fresh shoots of spring, acting upon muscle memory.

Was the attraction due to the lack of story or the discovery of new biological strain?
Was hesitation linked to the dread of upsetting the ecosystem?
I could never question my pussy – she lived her life in full knowing whether someone was a lover to us or not – I am sure the same way animals know to pick a mate – instinctually.

Dance for me – move with me, and I’ll know.

What a cruel thing we’ve done to rob domesticated animals of this delight of courting, of nature’s selection – and to rob ourselves from it too. The statues of mating monkeys everywhere in this jungle oasis reminded us of the natural order of paradise.

Thankfully this volcanic island always had a long, supple wet season.

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Born in the arctic, Mia Mor set out to find more exotic landscapes, alternative cultures and foreign lovers. 
Her studies in therapeutic creative arts set the scene for a career spent caring for others and making improvised art in words, movements and sound. She has produced work in poetry, theatre, soundscapes and short erotic films. Identifying as a polyamorous being, she has spent the last decade exploring and mastering radical relating styles and erotic embodiment work. Now giving most of her attention to writing, Mia is to be a resident of Berlin whilst continuing education on the current geopolitical topics.