Most finger their desire as one would finger food, lightly, squeamishly, with the fleshy, thoroughly clean tips of their index and middle fingers, judiciously picking it to avoid unnecessary smear. Squeezing a lemon slice at the end for perfect disinfection. They call that art. The art of the erotic magazines.
It’s just the two of us, locking ourselves away like lunatics, who take the meaning of devour to yet unexplored depths. We use fingers too – and tongues, and knees, and lips, and the blaze in our eyes, to consume each other in our feast. I stroke you with myself, you hold me from within myself. We call that the feast of love on earth.