Poetry in BDSM?

Can it be possible? Can there be poetry in BDSM?

Can it be that a session holds in its sadistic deliveries, a little soul, a little humanity, something to purify the meaning of what makes it exist?

Could we find poetry among our inquietudes, our miseries or our exaltations of what, to ignorant and external eyes, is a simple aberration?

Simple criticisms about the pleasures of others, shadows among shadows that hide the darkest part of our inner selves.

Letting it out at each opportunity that arises, releasing the stifled instinct with each whip strike, internal pleasures that, through another man, make us feel alive.

Poetry? Could there be?

By understanding each other we allow ourselves to be discovered, by hiding we allow ourselves to be seduced. We seek what we already have and lose what we have not yet found.

We keep searching.

We sink into our fetishes, savor our perversions as if they were the last. We leap into the void without calculating the risks. There will be time for regrets or perhaps not. It is done.

Keep falling, lost in that fold of a chap or a leather jockstrap, in a sweaty armpit or groin, seeking that scent that leads us to the climax of cerebral excitement, that which gives rise to a point of desired madness aided by our instinct, without forgetting for a single moment the universe.

More emptiness and another leap.

Something explodes in the privacy of a session, each body surrenders to the whims of another body, need, passion, forgetfulness, infinity.

This is me, I surrender. That is you, take me. That is you, you will be my God, you already are my God, you were centuries ago.

Let’s play at uncovering our interior without caring about physical nudity. In your hands my secret, at your feet my truth.

We cannot flee from our shadow, with each step it follows us like a loyal dog. There is so much to give and so little time to give it.

Stop that clock, its hands hurt, they go too fast, I want to remain prostrate at your feet. Its heartbeat scratches my pleasure. Tick-tock, kill it!

Our minds refuse to yield, again the world starts to turn, we do not want to accept it. Let it not turn, let it give us a little more secret life, may all that prevents us from being cease to be.

Time is passing, I want to stay. With each beat something ends. We try to survive and it overcomes us, we fight against the impossible. Tick-tock.

We will not cease in our attempt. The day is ending, yes. But tomorrow there will be more time, more poetry, more emptiness to leap into.

I am sure we will dictate the best prose written in the annals of our personal BDSM.

That world of ours where we can be ourselves, even if in the attempt we cease to be.

Let’s leap.