Photo by Jonathan Beckley

by Karin Webb

Have we forgotten this dance?

Years of understanding each other through online articles: stories about how fucked up this thing was, or how different that situation should’a been…

It’s hard not to wonder if when I see you whether or not I’ll stumble and fall, like those people the articles are about all did — and our friends agree how awful it was when stuff like that happened… What does that mean about possible future me?

Oxytocin can be harvested from the dilation of an eye’s pupil.

Can you dig that? By looking you squarely in the eye and smiling we can get high. I need you.

(But that’s inappropriate, and anyhow the back of my brain is addicted to another version of this game: how many people liked my last update?… I’ll just check it real quick now… now… now… … … … now.)

It’s easier than looking.


The shape of your mouth when it moves as if no one is watching (and I suspect no one has watched in awhile), is startling. It is an ode to inner conversations, conflicts, and held back feelings which run deep…

Your eyes, filling with everything, and silence all around clicking away, fingertips on screens, downturned heads, this room is filled with so many conversations not said out loud.

There are people here who aren’t present and can’t see the room we are in, will never regard this masterpiece of a quietly working you.

Hands filled with foot.

Your arms are real, your shape has dimension, you are full of strength and soft.

Love offers you up in silence,

A quiet moment of connection to another body.

Love, your body.


And I watch.

My pupils dilate.

Seeing and feeling you here,

Naked of screen,

Vulnerable dressed in flesh, meat and bones only,

No appendages, no other worldly conversations, no stimulation but “now” between your fingertips.

Your eyes, filling with everything, is a masterpiece I love more than anything.

I would sail the ocean and throw every electronic overboard to live here forever.

Watching you massage,

As you feel quietly,

In a room of people,

Where only I am watching.

Play On My Friends,
~ Karin

If you like my blog, please check out my Patreon Page and support me. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist

~Thank you.

Capacity for Pleasure

My morning thoughts today: Sooo tired, bone achingly so, but happy and calm. My skin feels less and less like my own as I grow older, even as my body’s shape and weight fluctuations, firmness, and space-taking strength becomes more comfortable. It’s taken me decades to look in a mirror and not see an enemy staring back…

I love the struggle of my day: a head that wants, and a spirit who sits still to listen for what the self is actually saying. My brain is too tired to write for the lack of sleep I am currently enduring, and my body wants all of the things, experiences and connections, too quickly for digestion. I volley back and forth in my head about fantasies I am too afraid to ask for in person, yet I turn around and enact these very things in a room full of strangers who come by at the agreed upon time, sit and wait to see and hear what I’ve been keeping so quiet and protected…

I am my own safety, infrequently lent to singles except in moments of inspiration or the random rare chemical desire… Oh, to fall into a of cozy and careful touch, as I do those painful and challenging tests of my endurance. I might fall pieces to pieces for a sweet kindness on my skin, a spirit bigger than my own carving out time for my release. It is easier, my feral self says, to fight, bite, trust in pressure against my body than succumb to the potential trap of a caress.

My ex would throw their back out every time they got a massage. I feel that instability in my heart. To love the everything which I am made of, embodied in you and you and you is righteous and divine! To spend an elongated moment focused specifically on my pleasure for pleasure’s sake is galling, insipid, a fear with teeth and walls, a shadow I cannot find the end of. I know these things are one and the same, a microcosm and a macrocosm spiraling in and out, the never-changing parts of what makes life for the living… Still though, I find pleasure terrifying. I find it insurmountable, untrustable, a thing I want to rage at, an end. Losing myself in something I won’t need to heal from? I think implosion might be self love. I’m not so afraid of death being pain, I am afeared that unfolding into pleasure might take me first.

Play On My Friends,
~ Karin

If you like my blog, please check out my Patreon Page and support me. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist

~Thank you.

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