Archives for the month of: November, 2012

Silent beauty

With a vigour of love and grace, you move me with your stillness.

Illustrious and effortless, radiating from you

I look into your eyes, and I see the ocean of feeling

Press my soft power into your heart

Behold this, sit in it, and melt

Melt and open, in my caress

Nothing to be done, that need be done, all in you

Soft, still, open, the most beautiful caress.


At times when we are feeling lost, alone, disconnected, it is easy for us to search for answers outside of us.  As though the answer is so simple.  A clever phrase to be spoken, a little joke, a piece of cleverness to win us some attention.  When a man moves into that place, moves his power to such a sprawling locus, he loves the semblance of power.  His actions lack merit, his movements lack vigour, his  intent loses sharpness.

Shame with a woman, when she cannot find her own beauty.

A difficult thing to behold, it is sure.  When a delicate pixie, a beautiful creature, cannot find the love inside.  Her laugh shows ecstasy, but there is no ease.  Her movements have fluidity, but there is no grace.  Her sex is searing, but there it is not soothing, not sensual.

There is a moment with a woman, when the magic unfolds.  It happens in silence.  When she loses her masks.  When she wears a true face.  The lines of joy and anguish drawn into her face.  For just that moment, with her, powerfully, completely.  When she opens with her heart in her eyes.

That is her true beauty.


Hot for my girl.

What drives me there?  As a man.  To reach out, eager to strike?  To breathe, groan, my eyes bewitched by her presence.  What is it?

When I look over at her, her figure swaying, lips full, eyes piercing.  Dancing in living, skin glowing in the sunlight.  What is it that catches my eye?  The curve of her hips, the way she moves?  I have seen it much, very often.  Lingering scent in my nostrils.  Familiar.  Her gorgeous legs in a perfect outfit, capturing the shape of her body.

I have seen off of this before.

What is it then, that slays me.  Each time.  What drives me back?

It is not her beauty, though she is most lovely.  It is not her sweetness, her voice, her fire, her body.  Not the way she seduces the air she walks in.

It is all of this, and none of this.

The essence of her womanhood, flashing and slashing, a chaotic rainbow of strobing lights.  The woman I love, swirling through the fires of daily renewal.

Seductress, siren, sorceress.

A whirlwind of carnal vapours, shimmering in her skin.  Changing her every day.  That she can fall into it, surrender into herself.  Her blood beating new blood.  Never alike, always reborn.  Explosive, piercing, sorrowful, loving, motherlike, nurturing.  Never a day alike.  Always, my teeth on edge, my chest gripped with longing, excitement.

Give me those eyes

Those eyes that slay me

At once soft and sweet

Hued with the hum of fire

Pierce me with that flame

And burn me to awaken

Hark, that siren’s call

Mingled in the emptiness

Clutch me in my balls and my spine

Genesis of my brutal love

Slay me, and I will rise

Provoke me, and I will surrender

Ebb and sway

Within the touch of my grasp


Intoxicated with a yearning,

Thunder growing in my throbbing chest

Touch me

Without your hands

A piercing in the dead of those eyes

Slay me with your surrender

Cast me down to die by your gentle gaze

And watch what erupts

Those eyes that slay me

they drive my soul forward

to drive that stake

into both our hearts

Some thoughts bared on sex and culture.

It was a few years ago when my niece came for a visit.  It was a regular, sunlit afternoon in Australia.  I was doing some work on my laptop, and at the time, I had a lovely wallpaper from my favourite erotic site,  a lovely image of girls in kiss and caress.

3-year-old Christy came in, saw the pink skin on my screen, and pointed at it.

“That’s yucky.”

Harmless at the time, I simply chuckled.  “Not it’s not”

“Yes it iiissszzz.  That’s yucky!”

I turned my gaze towards her, then back the smut on my screen, and back to her again.

“Your mummy told you that, didn’t she?”

Christy became still and silent for a moment, pausing to contemplate my question.  She’s a thinker this one.  Without answering, she turned and shuffled away, shuffling away to find something to play with.  Nonchalant.

It was a moment that has stayed with me for a while.  That a little girl, innocent, sweet and bright-eyed, could be instructed to react to sex with feelings of disgust and shame.  I know that feeling well.  Not only did it take me time to burst out of that repression, it took even longer for my sex to grown and mature.

I wonder if there will be a day when sexuality can remain free and open.  I believe that it is our duty to cultivate sexuality, the same way we cultivate self-esteem or self-identity.  It is too primal an energy.  When that day comes, issues like homosexuality, age disparity and marketing won’t become hot issues like they are today.

But I will say one thing.  To live a life with my sex as a burden, is a terrible, excruciating, silent pain to live with.

A pause

And a touch of fire.

The moment when I look over and see you.  Sitting there.  Nothing.  Nothing else on my mind.

And I see it unfold.

Grabbing you, clawing you away from your table.  Throwing you onto the bed, your body throwing fits of defiance.  All in vain.  Watching you gasp with struggle and delight.

Pressing your wrists down with my hands.

Locking your his into place.

Pressing my lips onto yours.  A deep, sensual, passionate kiss.

A mix of heart, soul and saliva.

Your limbs wrapping around my torso.


A whisper in my ear,

A voice defeated and conquered,

“I love you”


Can you sense it

It hangs in the air

In the silence

Like a vapour of frost in the humid air

Rapturous, in the silence

A scream in the silence

A roar to be unleashed

Held in the flesh

Creaking against the bones of your ribs

So get ready



I want to hear you scream

But not yet

Not for a moment

We will let it torture you for now


Scream silently

And I will hold your body all the while

Love and Man

swept up by a blizzard of love and lust

thrust into the depths by the force of hunger and desire

but this

only the most gentle could whisper this open

subtle forces of heat and touch and taste

melt in my arms and surrender


your softness has slayed me

inside I crumble at your gentlest caress

deep, carnal force

collapses to your yielding

stunned by the strength of your ethereal grace

and watch as I capture your in my greatest freedom

conquer you as my own slave

breath ignited by the expanding burning inside

breadth expanding against the crushing fear

insides churning and poised to erupt

sinews stretched and chest expanding

ready, yielding, still and powerful

strength from my bones, my flesh and my breath

poised, upright and erect, sharp and piercing

and eyes, focused, penetrating, unwavering.

All of this, from your gentlest touch

your gentlest grace

your most magnificent surrender

watch me catch you, my knees bend, my body yield

and the heat of your heart

makes me burn, burn, burn

yes, now

a touch of love and watch me awaken

power and strength, my sword and my shield

my new rose, my love, red lips and red blood

hold her, protect her, from the howling wind

A piece of a different nature.

As I write this, I am once again caught by the bug of chess.  The game of kings, as Andy Dufresne put it.  A hobby that I picked up as a young boy, it is something that I go back to every few months, sometimes obsessively.

Perhaps a perfect example of the how chess captures my imagination can be seen below.  A remarkable game played by the then-World Champion José Raúl Capablanca.  Even more incredible was that the Cuban played his opponent blindfolded.

Whilst us poor amateurs (like me) awkwardly struggle with the mechanics of the pieces, the greatest players maneuver in accordance to intuition.  Mastery in action.

Chess is known to attract the most unorthodox minds.  In addition to one David Esotica, Gary Kasparov, one of the greatest players of all time, wrote the book How Chess Imitates Life.  An intriguing idea aimed at a niche audience, the game is was not immune to the reach of philosophy.

But of course, you’re reading this for something a bit more fun, aren’t you?

How Chess Imitates Seduction

This beautiful scene from the 1968 film The Thomas Crown Affair is an elegant metaphor for the game of seduction.  I love its subtext.  Layers upon layers of meaning.  Ultimately, neither the game nor the seduction is at focus.  It is the tension, insinuation and anticipation.

It reminds me of a piece of advice when it came to seduction:  Never play chess games with women.  A man cannot match her social intelligence.   “Sex is woman’s secret”, as the Chinese sages used to say.

I believe this to be true.  I found it best to be completely, sometimes brutally, honest about my intentions, allowing the situations to unfold for themselves.  Throw out the games, the tactics and the techniques.

However, there have been times when my work has been accused of being just that: an unethical deluge of sexual manipulation.  I will admit that this has bothered me at times, not because it questions the validity of my writing, but rather my own integrity as a person and as a man.

I spent a few moments reflecting on what was actually taking place.  Evidently, such spartan and caustic accusations had more to do with the accusers themselves.  But what was it specifically that was erupting?

Roger Moore’s seminal work King Warrior Magician Lover gave me some of the insights I was looking for:

The Magician energy is the archetype of awareness and insight, primarily, but also of knowledge of anything that is not immediately apparent or nonsensical (p106).

Certainly, this energy, combined with the Lover archetype, was extremely useful in my life when it came to relationships and women.  After all, what is more nonsensical to my logic than female intuition?

Further reading revealed more:

Whenever we are detached, unrelated… whenever we use our knowledge as a weapon to belittle and controls others or to bolster our status or wealth at others’ expense, we are identified with the Shadow Magician as Manipulator.  We are doing black magic, damaging ourselves as well as [others] (p114-5).

Reading these words, I could see pieces of my own journey.  Certainly, when Diana came into my life, I was tempted with the riches of using her for own means.  Looking back, I judge that I’d conducted myself with integrity, and I am satisfied that this has continued with the fruition of Red Silk.  I suspect some of these biting criticisms have come from men and women  living under the shadow of wounded fathers.  I recognise the place where they speak from.

If I took the chance to reiterate my personal mission, with my writing and my work:

  • To create a space of safety and healing for women, through raw and wild relationships, orgasms and sex
  • To create a space of empowerment for men, through shadow, initiation and a focus on young intellectuals

My vision for Red Silk is to reinvent to connotations of seduction.  With the archetypes in mind, it is brutal and powerful, deeply compassionate, water-tight safe and charmingly intuitive.  Like a fabulous combination on the mental chess board, the maneuvers attack a woman’s weaknesses with overwhelming force; weaknesses that she has hidden deep inside, secretly craving for them to be torn apart.

But sometimes I still get it wrong: