The fruit is offered to him -
a tribute for all he's endured.
Not payment; because nothing could approach
the value of what he has given.
Just a gift, brought to him with a bow
and lowered gaze
in gratitude and respect.

He wants to proceed slowly, to savor.
It's been so long since he's been given an offering of this quality.

He's starving and exhausted
Worked into a state of utter deprivation.

Her soul urges him:
Take it
Claim it
Use what you need.
It's all for you, every bit.

He lifts it from the altar of her love
The husk parts easily under his thumbs
and nectar runs out over the split
coating his hands in fresh sweetness.

The tender inner flesh is pink and glistening.
Enticing.
The scent is a powerful drug drawing him in.
He pulls it up and into his mouth,
addicted after the first taste.

He plunges in, fiercely devouring the tribute.
The juice runs down his face
splashes against his chest
covering him in its organic goodness:
The smell, The texture, The flavor.

He falls to his knees
lost in the joy of receiving the tribute.
Grateful to the giver.
Grateful for the gift.


A lesson on the female Orgasm

"The entire mystery of pleasure in a woman's body lies in the intensity of the pulsation just before the orgasm. Sometimes it is slow, one-two-three, three palpitations which then project a fiery and icy liqueur through the body. If the palpitation is feeble, muted, the pleasure is like a gentler wave. The pocket seed of ecstasy bursts with more or less energy, when it is richest it touches every portion of the body, vibrating through every nerve and cell. If the palpitation is intense, the rhythm and beat of it is slower and the pleasure more lasting. Electric flesh-arrows, a second wave of pleasure falls over the first, a third which touches every nerve end, and now the third like an electric current traversing the body. A rainbow of color strikes the eyelids. A foam of music falls over the ears. It is the gong of the orgasm. There are times when a woman feels her body but lightly played on. Others when it reaches such a climax it seems it can never surpass. So many climaxes. Some caused by tenderness, some by desire, some by a word or an image seen during the day. There are times when the day itself demads a climax, days of which do not end in a climax, when the body is asleep or dreaming other dreams. There are days when the climax is not pleasure but pain, jealousy, terror, anxiety. And there are days when the climax takes place in creation, a white climax. Revolution is another climax. Sainthood another."