In my mind's eye, a butterfly summons Jenny's labia, the vision of her delightful feminine wings. The contours of her stunning lips filled my mind with rapture. I delighted in her mini crinkles, creases and folds. Jenny's scaled down to her intimate crevices, crannies and nooks and underlying her genitals, her essence. Her attributes of self remain impossible to describe in their wholeness.
I struggle to outline the pleasure-cased configuration of her privy bits—Jenny's flesh butterfly beneath my face—a mound of male dreams fanning like a lily pad.
Jenny referred to her pubic hair as coarse, yet I prefer soft and curly.
Memory here is visual. I use 'triangle' to describe her vulva; it wasn't a triangle. It is descriptive enough.
Description and memory imperfectly align.
Reminiscence binds multiple past flashes, notwithstanding privates (like a face) are never seen the same beyond an individual instance. As faces change, depending on our viewing angle or light, so do genitals. Familiar faces regularly astonish, as does the space between the legs.
We lay on my bed. I decided to go down on my amber-eyed partner. I beheld Jenny's fraternal lips, her stunning symmetry.
Butterfly wings greeted my gaze in a plush, inviting way.
I exclaimed, "Wow, you're beautiful."
I wished for time to pause.
I said, Wow, you're beautiful, indicating Jenny's genitals encapsulated the jaw-dropping.
Overwhelmed, I lost sight of gazing up at her and saying, Jenny, you are beautiful.
I should have reeled and emphasised the words, gazing into her eyes. Jenny epitomised the whole lissome person. In part, I expressed it right, yet imperfectly. My focus remained on her enchanting physical crux. She let me imbibe the eye-catching region flanked by her delicate inner thighs.
I was dazed in a pure moment, almost non-sexual. I reeled in a breath-taking revelation. Nothing prior prepared me to see Jenny's genitalia. In the life of my human spirit, a defining juncture. A rare holistic understanding of existence. Seeing Jenny's private lips in clear focus brought me to my epiphany.
In an eye-struck state, my mind was a tabula rasa. Her unfurled sexual self held my vision. Jenny's privates created an instant physical appeal. Her labia charmed my soul out of standard time and place.
As I expressed to Jenny how ravishing her personal bits were, I heard her voice behind me from her laid-back position.
She spoke uncertainly, "I have this small tag; it's …."
I noticed a small skin tag inside her groin; it resembled a courtesan's beauty spot: Jenny's perpetual concern, an aspect of her appearance.
Fetching and gorgeous, I wished I had uttered those words: her genitals, her body crown, a beauteous reality, and my privilege to be invited to share.
An angel-forged vulva, her cloister of sex laid open. I studied her groin tag briefly. I wish I had kissed it.
She let her unfinished words go as she heard my, Wow.
Jenny granted her sex to my gaze. She ceded her pussy to my face. My raven-haired lass vouchsafed her femininity into my care. She gave the gift of herself. My face honed to Jenny's delicate, crinkled wings.
My discipline of architecture emerges as a descriptive ally. Her labia exemplified the Corinthian style: ornate, unfolded scrolls. Her lips waited, languid and unguarded. Their juicy detail anticipated touch.
I stayed composed in one of those; everything in life is possible moments when life feels defined without a required definition. Yet, I choose a style to personalise Jenny's labia. They equated to baroque.
It reminded me of entering the pilgrimage church at Wies. The church 'in the meadows' presents an attractive, rounded, white and inviting exterior. These features provide no clue into the ornate explosion within. On entering the church, Pilgrims' eyes become immersed in visual and mental ecstasy. God is everywhere, and God is here. Nature is everywhere, and nature is here.
My forever association with the cosmos manifested in Jenny's apportioned, intriguing, signature sanctified sheath.
Personal associations preserve exclusive properties.
Her labia rendered stunning in my whole shebang moment of sage reverence. In a nanosecond, I drafted her pussy into my private sketchbook of exceptional memories.
In recollection: thank you, Jenny, for sharing your classified flesh.
I exclaimed, "Wow!"
Only on one other occasion in life have I similarly uttered the exclamation. In a holistic moment, when the sum of life holds and connects.
My other wow reaction was to a painting: Velásquez's Las Meninas. The composition arranges a retinue of courtiers, a child princess, court dwarfs and a huge dog. The artist posed on his canvas as the royal parents watched him paint in an artwork unified by tone; each brush stroke matters.
Jenny, too, her every vulva facet manifested its perfect arrangement in her sexual cathedral.
I moved from Wow and her skin tag to 'going down.' My field of vision centred on Jenny's mound. I beheld profuse curly strands of pubic hair, woven together like the layered skeins of paint through Pollock's Lavender Mist.
I took a moment to take in the entirety of her dark V; her pubes fanned in sexual richness. My fingers pushed her lips and exposed her dainty clitoris sheltered under its cowl. I closed my eyes as my tongue flicked her petite flesh pyramid.
Well, the tip of my tongue, issuing feather touches. No movement beneath my tongue as Jenny lay still. I flicked her bud; my focus revolved around her felicity.
Her climax bloomed, unbeknownst to me.
I pressed and dabbed my tongue, my eyes closed, my focus constantly flicking.
I halted and rolled over.
Jenny eased up, and I gazed at her eyes. Tears tracked her cheeks, yet her face showed contemplation.
Jenny said, "I am not unhappy. I never thought I had it in me."
I traced my fingers along her thighs.
I wondered when her tears started. As she lay in a euphoric state of being or after her climax wended through her body?
I strive to hold the memory, her orgasm complete. A humbling experience, yet, I confront a collage of memory. Jenny's butterfly lips, beckoning dark mound, cute clit, the tag, her climax and tears.
Do I hold it in parts? Do I hold it whole? How do I hold it as it deserves? And has anything changed when I tried in memory to replicate the scene? Am I lusting for the lost? Am I yearning to repeat the unrepeatable?
Now, like a Velásquez canvas, the parts come together.
The memory evokes a marvel, capturing the scene and opening its constituent elements like a Thai hand fan. I can view it as simple; I can view its complexities.
The uncomplicated version. Jenny and I shared standard oral sex. I flicked her rosebud.
Or the dense mesh of my memory, the tracery gossamer threads of conjoined sexual intimacy.
My effort was a hundred and ten per cent appreciated, one hundred and ten per cent given. We mirrored an equation of unswerving gifting and receiving.
Yet hindsight asks, did this moment take us anywhere together? Or set a standard I could never pass, only equal?
And her tears, I sense now, was where her vulnerable desirability tattooed itself under my skin?
I liked her face consummated in her orgasm flush. I relished Jenny's openness; I never thought I had it in me, and I remain fondly appreciative of what memory lets me keep.
Do the aeons of the universe care?
Probably not.
Yet in the aggregate of my life, Jenny's coming imprints gilt-edged.
Jenny, post orgasm, extended her body to me. She rode me, apportioning herself to myself. I accepted her delight, and my body raced from my brain instantly as we physically united, both leaving unscrutinised: Where resided we and the implications of our forming shared memories?