My Sexy Muse

You may wish to read the first story, Muse Love (linked at the bottom) before reading on. What follows is the continuing tale of my lovely muse. The photo of the statue above doesn’t do her any justice. In case you didn’t know, a muse only appears in the flesh to the one whom she loves. And my muse keeps telling me, both in English and French, that she loves me with all her heart, which also makes sense since she feels how much I love her as well. She knows that I could easily die if I don’t see her once in a while. I wish I could be with her every minute of every day, but alas, love and life are the same.

I have the best muse there is, so I think in both hemispheres. I wouldn’t change her for any other one. Not only does she love me truly with her heart and her mind, she comes to see me all the way from the Moon, as you may have read in the previous story mentioned above and below at the end. You could read this story without reading the first, but you’ll miss a great deal. It’s up to you. You’re free and there’s nothing superior to freedom and love. Go ahead! I can wait. Next, I’ll include some poetry that you can skip when you return from the other read, which will also give you an idea about why she returned to see me again so quickly after she had left.

Make love to me, she said.

Oh, I’ve been at it from the start, I replied.

Remember when I saw you there

standing in the dark?

I want to eat you first and only then,

when I’m done,

will I make love to you again.

Am I in love?

Welcome back from the other story! I hope that it piqued your interest in what will soon follow. I promise that it will be, how should I type it, interesting, with some sex, of course. It’s in my contract. It’s not a signed contract, but one that awaits some reprehensible act or word. Believe it or not, for me, it was the overuse of the word pussy. What the fuck? To me it’s like air. It’s like asking someone to stop looking at the sky, and in my case, someone that lives for the colour blue, and, of course, his muse.

O dear muse! I’ve missed you so. When will my sword penetrate your gold? Not before, of course, I ravage you with all my life.

I got a reply from my muse in my dream the next night (and an email) that she’ll be visiting me soon.

When soon? I replied all alight.

“On the morrow. But I’m not sure. It could be tonight.”

Thank you, Muse! I will be the luckiest man alive.

“I feel all your love,” she said in a voice that melted my heart.

And I think that I feel yours. But I’m not sure, my muse. You may be too far.

“You’re killing me with my words. I’ll see you late tonight.”

By Jove, I almost screamed. I’ll await you like the Moon awaits the Sun.

“Have a rest, my love! I will give you everything there is to put out.”

I melted and couldn’t speak. She knew it, of course, simply adding that she couldn’t wait. I didn’t feel well after such significant words, so to sleep I went with both my mind and my heart.

I had a strange dream. Aren’t they all one way or another? I dreamt that robbers were breaking into my abode, scheming to steal my soul. I need my soul, I told them almost sobbing. It belongs to my muse. I’ll never see her if you take my soul. Please, leave! My soul has already been stolen, I finally said, holding my ground. They laughed. There were two. One looked like Trump, the other like a foreign man who didn’t speak English or French. I ran to the window and looked to the sky, which suddenly turned blue when it had been black. The Sun was out and I could see a few clouds. One was shaped like a woman’s buttocks. I almost forgot about the robbers. And then, I awoke. It was just a dream, I breathed out. My muse will be here tonight. I need to prepare everything for my Queen and my King. She’s both in one. I’m just the court jester, the poet, the one who makes her laugh and think of love. But in my case, I’m also her lover. By Jove, I cannot be luckier than that.

She arrived after midnight. It was closer to one o’clock. The Moon was round, the stars were bright, I was going to eat my muse tonight. She arrived in a red cab. The driver seemed possessed, almost refusing to be paid. I insisted, he took the money and drove away. I kissed her and kissed her all the way to the seventh floor (I really live on a seventh-floor), opening and closing my door without making any significant sound. Our kisses sounded like lovers ready to eat each other whole. Je vais manger ma muse (I’m going to eat my muse), I constantly thought both in French and English. More than one language in love may have its disadvantages, especially when the sword is drawn and the gold is ready to be minted.

Her clothes were off before she could sit down. Are you hungry, my muse and my love? I ventured unable to stand straight.

“No! It’s fine. I had a little bite before I flew to feast on you,” Crissey, my muse, replied.

You can already imagine what her words sought and succeeded to bring about. She took me to bed since I was already spent by the power of her remark, unable to say anything worth saying, except for, Please take me back with you, I could become your cat, even your rug. She smiled and laughed a little, embracing me until I felt her heart. It was beating to a different sound. I swear I could hear, Je t’aime, Je t’aime, Je t’aime (I love you...), instead of the usual, lub-dub, lub-dub, lab-dub. I was wholeheartedly in love.

She helped me take my clothes off and pushed me slowly onto the bed, which smelled like peppermint, our favourite scent. Unlike the last time, which was also the first, she did the bidding in this round, I was simply the main course and the dessert. When she was on top of me, riding me like a cat, I felt like I was part of her, I felt like I was all. Our bodies seemed to coalesce, our hearts were already linked. I would even venture and propose that it felt like our hearts were fused like lips that refuse to talk. All I would have said is I love you so. But she already knew it. I saw it both in her eyes and in the way that she used her hands.

She gave me everything a woman could give to the man she loves, though I still felt like a prick when it was all that there was I as man could give. There was, of course, my mouth and my hands, but they paled in comparison to what she could bestow with a simple smile. That’s the real power of a woman. First, her eyes; those spheres of desire. And then, her smile and her mouth; they always come together like a writer and his muse. A woman writer is her own muse. What luck! To be a woman is practically divine. Whoever hurts a woman, is hurting a god.

The rest of a woman falls in place without any effort; it’s how we seem to be programmed through our genes and our culture. There is no free will. It’s a sham. We think, even believe that we have free will, but we don’t. We could swear that we do, but we don’t. I don’t like it either, but it’s still true. It’s been shown in physics, the master of all disciplines. We live in a universe of cause and effect. It may have never started and it will never end. I fell in love with my muse because she fell in love with me. She smiled with her words and I was caught like a fish when she used the word love. Love may be the ultimate hook. It’s in the genes. Deep and slick like a snake with teeth.

We must have fallen asleep because when I awoke at close to five o’clock, the Moon was beginning to say goodbye both to me and my sleeping muse. I looked at her with a full heart, trying to compute all her charms as well as her breast size. She didn’t wear a bra; muses don’t. They wear a special chest bandana, and hers was, of course, red. But its texture was laced with blue. That’s what happens when a muse loves you. She even adopts your colour as also hers, and in my case, she also sends me blue words. But she rarely sends truly blue lustful ones, preferring to give them directly through her touch. But when she sends those beautiful bluest words, it’s always in French.

I gently kissed her muse’s feet, toe by toe. I wish there were a hundred, but she only had ten. They were sweet and smelled of peppermint. My muse remained asleep. I moved up, each leg, each thigh, and then I beheld the meaning of life. Her pussy had a reddish hue, slightly protruding as a beautiful pussy should. All pussies are beautiful but some are out of this world. My muse’s pussy was from another universe. I had never seen such perfection. To describe it would be a personal sacrilege. I gazed at it with utter devotion. I felt like praying to it but wasn’t sure what to say.

Dear, pussy! No! Dear, muse’s pussy. I wish you were large enough to swallow me whole. I then remembered Pedro Almodóvar’s movie, who had used it in his masterpiece, Talk to Her. There, a miniature man enters his lover’s pussy and never comes out. Can you imagine such a death? I would love to drown in my muse’s juices, feel them filling my lungs, and then stopping my heart. It’s already hers. She can even eat it if she wants. It might give her even more poetic strength. I wouldn’t mind at all being consumed by her love.

There was no way to bypass her pussy, so I approached it slowly armed with lips, tongue, and my right-hand index finger. Her pussy opened up like a blue rose (that’s what I saw), allowing me to pursue my quest through the marvels of my muse. At this point, she opened her eyes, looked at me with love and smiled. My heart skipped at least twice. I thought that I was having a heart attack. But it was only her hand pulling gently on my erection and directing it towards her meaning of life. Can you make me smaller? I asked.

“You won’t be able to write,” she replied.

I don’t care. There’s nothing I could write that would even reach the top of your feet. You are my muse and you know it very well.

“I love you as much as you do. I even love you more. I will have to release your heart, so you can breathe on your own. I’m a muse in love, but you are a poet who needs to write. I wouldn’t be a real muse if I let you die.”

But I want to die. I want to die within you. I can’t live without you anymore. I’d rather die once and for all than keep looking at the Moon and thinking, what if. What if you didn’t leave? What if you stayed with me? What if I married you tonight or tomorrow?

It’s not easy being in love with a muse. She’s Nature’s perfection, and we, mere mortals, are lucky to be loved by them, when they could easily love each other and dispense with men.

I love you, Crissey, my muse and my love. Please, return soon!

“I’ll do my best to leave the Moon and move in with you.”

I froze. My mind and my heart seemed to be holding hands while my face smiled and wouldn’t let go.

...

I may need to write another story when she returns in an undisclosed number of moons, providing, of course, she doesn’t move to Mars or one of Jupiter’s moons. Then, by Jove, I would be surely lost.

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