Honey

Honey is erotic to all my senses.
The color is warm,
the heat of the setting sun,
the glow of post-coital bliss.
I put my fingers in it, and I think of the thousands,
millions,
of female bees
all serving the queen.
A swarm of feminine vitality,
hinting at a submissive role to a
dominant queen.
And don't even get me started on the
male bees kept alive only for
breeding purposes...
The honey feels like internal pressure,
the weight and
(I rub my fingers together,
trying to feel imaginary honey,
trying to find the right word)
force of the honey pushing
against my skin
the way my blood and organs
press from the inside.
Or like I had put my finger
in someone's mouth,
to be gently sucked.
Have you ever smelled honey?
Opened a jar and leaned into it,
breathed deep the scent of
bitter and sweet,
the scent of your own sex,
the scent of flowers carried upon
thighs and wings?
Do it now.
And of course, there is the taste.
It's so sweet that it hurts, that first taste.
The glands under your tongue
spasm in reaction,
spurting saliva into your mouth,
unbidden.
Of course it's sweet,
but it's also
musky,
rich,
a dark overtone of earth and moss.
The texture of honey on my tongue
cannot be replicated
with syrup or semen.
It is viscous,
visceral,
not at all slimey or slick.
The heat of my mouth makes it molten,
and I roll it around my tongue
before allowing it to slide
down my throat
like a swallowed moan.
When the sweetness fades away,
I'm left with an emptiness that
I long to fill
with another
spoonful
of
honey.