Analysis by Sylvia Lowry
I sipped my Scotch, imagining that I had grown capricious with age. Or perhaps my thoughts had become more liberated than my will; I remember a shiver of hesitation embarking on the experiment. I was 43, over twice the vintage of the drink I had swallowed, but I was determined to fuck a younger man, if only to realize a long-standing fancy. But I feared that my idea was perhaps too literary, too theoretical, too rooted in abstraction. That was always my great downfall. I was paid to be scholarly, after all, and could write high-flown essays in my sleep.
Photo by Flickr user Emery Co Photo
I had written too many.
I had delivered my paper on Keats’ poetics at the conference, and remained at the hotel bar alone. I had imagined this condition as my destiny: solitude, the glow of alcohol, a sustained moment of calm and introspection. But it demanded interruption.
I saw him approach without hesitation, with almost naïve eagerness, and could detect a graduate student’s poise, the image of an adult stranded in youthful enthusiasm.
“Professor Baker, the presentation was exceptional. Your analysis was perfect.”
I laughed, I hoped with a tone of gentle reassurance. “Thank you, but nothing is perfect. You’re very kind, but you can forget the whole thing if you’d like. And no need to address me formally.”
“I meant ‘perfect’ only in the sense that the reasoning was elegant.”
“It’s too easy to make ideas or analysis elegant.” I smiled wearily and ran my finger through my hair. There was a gray streak; I imagined it as a sign of stylish experience to decorate a body that retained the illusion of youth. ”I don’t change Keats’ poems. I’m just one of many clouded lenses to read through.” I paused. “Please sit down and join me.”
Romantic poetry by Keats & Shelley (photo by Flickr user Le Fish)
“Thank you.” He extended his hand, and the formality nearly unsettled me. “I was in Williams’ graduate seminar on late modernism, but hoped to study with you on the Romantics.”
I smiled again. “Please… let’s not talk shop. You make it sound like a master class with Isaiah Berlin. I’m a professional pedant, that’s all. ”
He nodded in polite acknowledgment and ordered a beer, which complemented my Glenmorangie, I imagined; the amber of the weaker alcohol was counterpoised against the powerful, aged libation in my glass. I felt a thrilling flush as I consumed the drink.
I set down my glass and turned to him. “May I show you something in my room?”
“Yes, of course.”
“My annotations… a trade secret, of course.”
“I’m actually very curious.” He stood up with such modest, undisguised innocence and enthusiasm that I suppressed a laugh. I feared that the outburst would sound predatory, but I was only paying tribute to the ease and elegance of the sport.
As we entered my hotel room, I secreted myself in the bathroom and disrobed. At first I did so awkwardly; I had imagined a strategic advantage as I stripped, finally stepping naked to the mirror, allowing my hair to flow to the shoulders. I appeared unfettered, even bestial, and I impulsively began to stroke my pussy and clit, as if to demonstrate that I could summon the ardor for the anticipated act. As I began to come, sensing the crescendo of an orgasm, I found myself gasping inarticulately before returning to reason.
I felt the flush of the Scotch depart, a quiver of apprehension replacing it as I opened the door and saw him kneeling, reading an open volume of Wordsworth. I walked up behind him, touching his neck in a gentle command. As he stood up I kissed him on the lips to avoid a protest or the intervention of language. He dropped the book in surprise, but yielded quickly. I sucked on his tongue, which he had extended in an endearingly fumbling manner, and devoured his lips at the moment I detected an attempt at speech, lowering to kiss his neck and licking the taut tendons.
I gently guided his head downwards, craving for him to suck my exposed nipples, and he began tentatively, first licking and then sucking with delicious fervor. I peeled back his shirt, craving the collision of flesh upon flesh, my pussy growing wet at his tribute to my breasts. From my vantage I could see the discarded book open on the floor, but the word were blurred and indistinct. I groaned to match its inarticulateness, then whispered, “I want to devour your fucking cock,” grasping his erection through his trousers and unzipping them inelegantly.
Photo by Flickr user Emery Co Photo
I pulled his pants fervidly to the floor, grasping the base of his cock, first pumping with my fingers and then inhaling its breadth, salivating like a brute, tasting the head, savoring its contours. I had not experienced the sensation in years, but my concrete thought vanished, the measurements of time evaporated, and I surrendered to the delicious friction of the moment.
I leaned back on the bed, pinching my nipples with one hand as I masturbated with the other, stroking my clit in a gesture of welcome. I felt a new dampness descend in my pussy, a gesture of my mounting exhilaration, and I grasped a tuft of his hair as he put his cock inside me, first with a tentative stroke but then with intense enthusiasm, deeply extending his shaft into my vagina, plumbing it, forcing me to exhale, puckering my lips, resuming my inarticulate expression. I had resolved to kill speech, to banish language, to destroy abstractions, to lose myself in a vigorous fuck, and as I felt another upsurge of an orgasm I broke my pact of silence and commanded, “Fuck me, god, harder…”
He continued, unrelenting as I came, pulling my nipples skywards. Shuddering, I watched the ceiling, imagining myself consumed by the silent, ruddy tiles. He finally withdrew, his entire cock trembling. I wordlessly grasped the shaft, relishing the cascade of semen detonating inside my mouth, my foot now touching the discarded book on the floor. I kicked it away and it vanished beneath the bed, as if it had been obliterated in time and space.
XXX
Sylvia Lowry is a novelist, essayist and writer of erotica who divides her time between Minneapolis and Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Paris. She writes about sex with an enthusiastic fusion of elegance and unbridled explicitness. Privately, she adores straight Glenmorangie, long walks along the Rive Gauche, and the keen, open exploration of both the literary and the erotic. Her erotica has been published by Clean Sheets and Lucrezia Magazine. Her website, offering additional unbridled reflections and sexual travelogues, is sylvialowry.wordpress.com.
