I have learned silence from the talkative, tolerance from the intolerant and kindness from the unkind; Yet, strange I am ungrateful to those teachers.
Kahil Gibran

http://images-partners-tbn.google.co...lil-gibran.jpg

“Life is like Tango... sad, sensual, sexy, violent and quiet.”

B. Traven
 

"If you do not wish to be lied to, do not ask questions. If there were no questions, there would be no lies."

Dyke Hands poem
 

Dyke Hands
by SDiane Bogus

Because dyke hands are the sexual organs of lesbian love, they can be as shocking to view as the penis through an open fly, or as bold (delicious) to behold as the breast of a woman suddenly uncovered.

Those hands you see folding laundry at the local Laundromat, reaching, grasping, holding canned goods at the supermarket, may very well be the genitalia of some woman’s lover, exposed. They often belong to our lovers, and those very hands come to our beds outstretched to touch, to rub, to tickle, to smooth, to run ripples of pleasure over our bodies, and often we take those very hands, finger by precious finger, into our mouths, assuming their cleanliness, their sanctity, and perform fingerlingus. We suck with reverence the hands that bring us to knotted heat, the very hands that hours before were signing some asinine form or holding a steering wheel. How can we possibly go on day after day, year after year, letting our lovers show their stuff to the world? How can we in good moral consciousness let our lovers take their naked dyke hands into a bar, reach for a beer and clutch it in front of lusting lesbian eyes? We all know that we look at the hands. We look at their size; we look for strength; we look for experience; we look for dexterity; evidence of ability, technique. But maybe I’m assuming something. Maybe I am assuming that lesbians revere the hands of their lovers, choose lovers by their hands. Maybe they don’t. Never even thought of it. I mean, some go by the face, or legs, or ass. Me? I’m a hand woman. If she’s got dyke hands, she’s got my attention.

Recently, my lover and I went for a manicure, my first professional one. The beauty across the table grasped my lover's hand, placed it face-down on her upturned palm. She spread the fingers wide, and proceeded to lotion the hand, up to the arm. Massaging and drawing with a near-pornographic stroke, the manicurist pulled her own encircled hand down my lovers arm, smoothly, pressing with sensual surety every molecule of lotion into the pores of her arm and hand. She did this to both hands, and I sat there allowing her the privilege to have her way with my woman, wondering what she’d think if she knew she was performing a six-dollar jack-off for the lesbian community. I was tickled by my vulgarity. But when she repeated the process, I realized that she was getting into it, and I became jealous, hating her flirtatious rape of my woman. I sat seething, and giving my lover the eye. She knew. She knew, and she was tickled to death at being loved so well. A picture of ol’ Madge on the Palmolive commercial flashed before me, and it all became so clear why those straight women flock to Madge’s for soap-dish manicures. It was her dyke hand loving that they craved. Poor misguided Palmolive! At any rate, there was my lover’s ten virile fingers stretched out like a naked man before a geisha, and something in me was proud and pissed at the same time. How good these hands were to my flesh when their touch wrought magic fires in my feet, raised the hair on my arms, brought my clitoris to know and explosion! How dare this brazen money changer masturbate my beloved before me eyes! How dare she be so oblivious to the genitalia of lesbian love here naked before her. There she sat safe in her (I assumed) heterosexuality, unknowingly a whore to my woman’s pleasure. If only she knew!

When it was my time, as tight-jawed as I had become, I literally squealed with pleasure. This intimate fondling, paid for or not, was delightful, one of the few good pleasures in life that is not yet overinflated. I sat back, with the joke on me, and let the manicurist, who became a human being, a woman making love to me, without the slightest notion, and I enjoyed.

The hands that stroke my hair, caress my flesh, that grip my thighs, press my love button, that slide between the redness of my labia, ought not be seen by the daily populace. They belong in gloves, or mittens, and perhaps as a nation of women identified lesbians, white, black, or brown leather gloves can be made the symbol of our private sexuality, and between us at least the idea that we are lovers of women can be acknowledged by us all.

My holiest orgasms come from the probing phalanges of my lover’s dyke hands. I’d not like to have them generally touching every Tom, Dick, and Harriet, not my dyke’s hands.

To meet reality is ruthless. To meet it without the mediation of the thought “I can control this,” is to face death. Really to face death, here and now.

This is Ramana’s awakening. Papaji said, “Stop.” If your life is about going, becoming, getting or escaping—stop.

The invitation is to let the life that is living this life, live it. When you let life live itself, you are actually surrendering to yourself. ~ Gangaji

Reality is the beginning not the end,
Naked Alpha, not the hierophant Omega,
Of dense investiture, with luminous vassals.

- Wallace Stevens

“Treat everyone with politeness, even those who are rude to you - not because they are nice, but because you are.”

Unknown

:hippie:

in my head when i woke up
 

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright

-- Percy Bysse Shelley

i like my body when it is with your body by E. E. Cummings


i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

funny
 

It's better to be black than to be gay because when you're black you dont have to tell your mother.
http://images-partners-tbn.google.co...esP-00-cvr.jpg Charles Pierce

Memories may fade as the years go by but they won’t age a day.

It was when we first talked i seem to know
That this was a love from long ago.
You were easy to talk to, conversation would flow
Yes this was a love i seemed to know.

Maybe back in time you'd once been mine
But somehow i lost you and my heart did pine
Now years have passed and once again
You turn up in my life's picture frame.

When we embrace and hold one another
Will our heartbeats recognize each other.
Please be the one i've been searching for
I need you now more than ever before.

Will history repeat or will i hold on
To the love of my life i cherish bar none.
Will this be the lifetime i have you again
Or will i remain in this terrible pain.