Muse Love

I could stop here before I even start. It’s all in the subtitle. I’m in love with my muse. But the story, of course, is how did such an incredible event even occur. Yes, that’s the story, and what a story it is. I’m still shaken by what unfolded after I met my muse. I didn’t know that I was meeting my muse. It just happened out of the blue, my favourite colour, and thus always a harbinger of something good. Nothing good happens at night when the sky is black, except, of course, and what an exception, you know, making love, or straight sex without the love. I always prefer love to precede the sex, but that’s just me. I’m not setting an example. I just love women too much to just switch between them as if they were bottles of wine. I only like red, which surprised my muse, since she knew that I loved everything blue. But blue wine, as far as I knew, just didn’t exist and thus surely not easy to find. Unless I could hitch a ride to a Klingon town and settle for some Bloodwine. But then we’re back to red. So, still no blue wine.

I googled it. Oh my God, there’s blue wine. I already ordered a bottle. It’s sold in 25 countries and it comes from Spain. Blessed Spain! You have changed your ways. Turning from the Inquisition and the decimation of the American Natives, just to name two, to great music, literature and dance, and now, blue wine. I’m really impressed. Here’s the link to the blue wine info on Wikipedia. But check it out after this read since I’m still waiting for the wine and it’s been more than a while. I can imagine some of the readers thinking, where’s the fucking sex? Don’t worry, dearest readers, it’s coming like a storm. But there’s still some background to cover. How did I feel at the time? Where was my car? I’m kidding about the car, of course; to me, it’s just a tool for going shopping and back home. I work at home. It’s been a while. I hate cars, but mine is yellow like the Sun.

I was living the usual miserable but free life when she saw me. Yes! My muse discovered me. By Jove, what luck! She was so pretty and womanly that my heart practically stopped for less than a split second, enough to tell me that I was smitten, but I knew that I was already in love. Cupid struck like a good glove. The duel would be long and hard. She’ll use whatever she wants, I’ll use my words and my heart. She’ll win, of course. A woman always wins, and when she loses it’s because there’s a fucking useless prick strutting his junk as if it was a NASA rocket of some kind when it’s only a meat rod, a bloody stick, a little brain with no ideas except I want to be inside where it’s humid and warm and I don’t care if I die. The last part is of course a lie. A prick rarely dies when it’s done. It usually wants to sleep or go for another ride.

Sexual tendencies are surely varied. Vive la différence (Long live difference). A muse requires pure love like the ones Shakespeare wrote about. The Bard didn’t only compose tragedies like To Be or Not to Be uttered by a Danish prince. Beautiful sonnets were birthed into the annals of human history until the end of our time. When we’re all gone and forgotten, Shakespeare will still be recited by beings in other stars. English has become the language of the universe. The British knew it as soon as they cried and laughed at the same time. Methinks I digress too much. Perhaps I need to stop for a bit. My muse has taken over my previous life. I wouldn’t go back even if I could. I love my muse.

I was reading a story on Medium that struck a chord in my heart that hadn’t been played for a very long time. The story was partly in French. I read the next story of hers and the next until I read them all. There weren’t very many, unfortunately. I would have read her till the end of December if she had included more of her heart. What’s even more amazing is that she discovered my stories and started reading them as well. And she continued until, by Jove, Cupid threw the glove. I picked it up but was looking for the hand, but Cinderella was still lost somewhere beyond the screen.

We exchanged some notifications filled with civil words, but the heart saw much more. We made contact and the story can end there. That, of course, would be cheating both you and most other readers, and thus, no doubt it’s time for some erotic innuendo. The sex comes later.

Back and forth, our words were sent, changing language every other envoy of love. She even started writing me poems. No one had written me a poem before. Who the fuck writes a poem to a prick? This prick, apparently, had touched her heart and a big part of her brain. This went on for a few weeks, to and fro, to and fro, like the movement of making love. We were making love with our words and a few photos she sent to put a face to her grace. I was already under her spell. I hereby thank every god out there who was instrumental like Cupid was. I wish we could go back to Zeus and the other gods who were mostly human. There was blood, there was wine, and there was mighty Aphrodite (Thank you, Woody Allen).

My love was nourished by her words and those few pictures of her angelic face and blue demeanour. Yes, dear reader! She was also blue. Blue like my beloved sky but red inside like velvet in spring, or is it already autumn? I love autumn because of the falling leaves. I think it’s almost universal. The French, however, turned it into a masterpiece. Je t’aime (I love you) wherever you are, my dearest dear.

Sex with a muse is an exciting thing you only read about in old books filled with dead time. Time also dies with the dead, unless the living brings it back with a smile. She was stunning like a muse when I picked her up at the airport. Petite and spritely she appeared like a vision out of mythology. For a moment I thought that she was Aphrodite. My eyes blinked and my heart skipped, it was already a very good start. By Jove, I hoped that my heart would be able to contain all her love.

I kissed her hello but couldn’t let go, I was suddenly in love with her tongue. Next, I kissed her nose and whispered Je t’aime in her ears before we made our way to my abode. The way home was sprinkled with moments of ecstasy, some in the car (we kissed and I put my head on her chest), some in the elevator (we kissed and I put a hand on her heart), but the raw thing happened in bed. I’m jumping the sword. We need more of the before to appreciate any of the after.

We sat on the sofa for some time. She composed a French poem as I was kissing her skin and also thinking of a sonnet. I would have presented it here, but it’s really only hers. Rhymes and times are also not part of the usual human diet unless you live with a muse. Instead, here’s a haiku I wrote for her when she showed me her breasts. It was in French but I include a translation.

“Je voudrais goûter

tes seins même si je ne goûte

plus rien après ça”

...

I would like to taste

your breasts even if I won’t

taste a thing after

She took a peppermint bath while I was preparing our meal, though food was not at all on my mind. I just wanted to be a part of her. I wanted us to be joined in every way. I wanted to feel her love in every pore. I was basically ready to die for Aphrodite’s heart. Her name was Crissey M. Not another M! Hers was, of course, the initial of a muse, whereas my M was mostly lonely and sad like the M in More. I wanted more of her love.

Do you mind, my muse, if I speak privately to your pussy? You can, of course, listen in, but I just need some time to get to know her. We are, after all, in a ménage à trois.

“Go ahead,” Crissey replied. “She’s been waiting a long time for your magical touch,” she added.

A muse always knows the right words.

Bonjour, chère chatte (Hello, dear pussy)! I just wanted to say hello with my tongue and try to disappear within your heart. Will you let me inside? I saw her labia move. It was as if they were blowing me a kiss. I reciprocated, of course, with a mountain of love. I felt as if a god had just given me the throne. When I was inside, you know, the prick, I felt that I was finally home. There was a fire blowing warmth. My heart was humming along. My brain was bathing in mirth. I was free as a bird. Yet I wanted her to be the bird flying next to me. I was in love with my muse.

After kissing and tasting every part of her, she fell asleep. Her flight had been long. She had come all the way from the Moon. I’m being a bit too poetic, I know, but when facing a muse, the laws of physics can loosen for a moment to allow a few rhyming schemes. The Moon in this case only means that she came from overseas across the pond until my place.

I made love to her and couldn’t stop. Each kiss required another. Each gentle rub of her breasts asked to be repeated like a prayer. Each taste of her pussy begged for a taller sister. A prick seemed made for it, providing it was clear that the woman was also a muse. Her buttocks felt like rainless clouds that needed kisses and the feeling of love. Her hands were everywhere, touching, caressing, pulling, stroking with such certitude only afforded to a muse who knew where she had fed her love. Her feet were so inviting that I wanted her to walk all over me. She refused the walk but she rubbed them around my prick until I pleaded for a break. A muse’s feet are like hands.

A muse, as she should, doesn’t like too many personal details. All I can say now is that I’m hers and that I would do it again like a badger. It was so amazing to eat her. She tasted like a muse. What does a muse taste like? you may ask. I’m afraid that it’s only for a muse to relate, and if you’re lucky as I was, you’ll get to see heaven in her eyes. I did and I’m still unable to sleep since she left to return to the Moon.