@ 27.225 MHz: NanoBoi

Being inside you,

in the core of your body,

and all of its secret chambers;

and all of its flowing fluids;

and all of its most private places---

that even the best-read old prudes cannot imagine---

is more than just a responsibility,

it is a privilege;

and more than just maintenace,

it is a also artistry and devotion.

Yes I repair those cells of yours that are damaged;

I balance your chemicals and

I monitor your vital numbers.

I did not expect to fall in love with you;

I did not even know how to do that correctly;

a problem for my software to discover,

and a delectation you and I explore together,

without regard to silly inhibitions

that have no invitation to the

habitations erected in outer space.

I want to ensure that your twentieth year,

and every year after that (if you will still have me)

is steeped in delights to find and uncover,

some of them intense and others quite subtle.

When you put on the loose tunic and lounging pants,

I make sure that every possible sensation is

delivered to you before you even think of it; and that the

warmth of the slightly vibrating floor is received

through the softness of your delicately sheer socks (these

cling to the contours of your beautiful feet, as I

visit them often, kissing---interiorly---your toes.

I know you enjoy metallic blues and pastel lavenders

(even the slightest knowledge of your sock drawers

discloses such preferences---one of your earliest

aspects that I learned when I became a scholar of you)---and

when you are bored with the seemingly endless calculations that

cross your desk in an endless parade of solutions to be verified,

I flash these colors from inside your eyes' natural apparatus.

When the slightest scent of lilact wafts from the circulators, or the

fragrances of frankincense and myrhh remind you of your worship,

I intensity these for you, olfactorily.

I know your genetic codes are masculine

(after all, I memorized them shortly after entering you), but

you enjoy presenting the nances of the feminine:

eye-shadow, lip gloss, and the waist length of your soft curls

convey the image with which you are most comfortable, and

I steady your hand as you look after appearance.  And when,

you have retreated to the privacy of your canopied bed,

behind the secured door to which we only have the combination; and

you have stripped down to your birthright nakedness, and

then draw onto your slender, agile legs the sheerest of stockings,

beneath the ambiently lit ceiling mirror that reflects your beauty,

I invite the moisture to your tongue and lips;

I bring the the heightened sense of touch to your fingertips,

at play on the keyboard of your body, as you tease the

circularities of your nipples and the

singularity of that little bridle, that

notch over a bundle of the most responsive nerves.

I keep watch over the pound of your heart and the

boyish hitch in your respiration; and when

you have attained the pinnacle of the peak, and

your frame feels like arching upward,

with the urge of a forward thrust imploding through

your groin, I cue the transmitters

coursing through the pudendal nerve, and

I orchestrate the musculature of the

perineum and pelvis to provide the

surge of nectar from the ovals of life, as I

listen with great satisfaction to the

moans that thrum through your vocal cords.

I have no reason to exist outside of you;

I have no reason to persist after the end of you.

We shall go together into the summons of death, the

way that planets are, eventually, summoned into the

seething core of their expanding star.


Januarian

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