We hear a lot of conflicting perspectives on desire.
Oftentimes we are warned to detach from it, lest we spend our lives running towards pleasure and avoiding pain. This attitude comes across as a bit fundamentalist to me and works to deactivate and deny our fundamental creative impulses.
Or we are told it’s the fuel of life and that we should heed its every call; otherwise, we are living dry and colorless lives and stifling our creative potential. While this is more in alignment with my beliefs, taken to the extreme, it can breed attitudes of narcissism and entitlement and make us feel like victims of circumstance when we perceive that we aren’t getting what we are wanting.
I believe the sweet spot lies somewhere in between.
Of course, let us not confuse desire with craving, that passing habit of addiction which we use to desensitize ourselves.
No, desire is very much a feeling animal—alive and rife with orgasm.
The sweet spot brings us to the edge of our pleasure and holds us there so as to savor the experience and gently land before becoming bloated and numb to sensation.
It loves to rest right in the center of wanting and having.
It satiates while keeping the appetite sharp.
The Japanese have a saying for this regarding food: Hara hachi bu. Which means “Eat until 80% full.”
And of course we’ve all heard the saying “Leave them wanting more.”
So when you feel your desire call, slow down. Listen. Really tune in to what she is saying. It may be a little confronting, especially since desire often goes against the cultural grain.
It’s less about totally expressing your desire and more about simply acknowledging and approving of what you hear. From the center of the sweet spot, desire becomes a conscious choice. And you get to decide how much fun you are going to have on the ride, regardless of whether or not the desire is fulfilled.
Oftentimes, it’s just as delicious to sit with desire—to hang out in the wanting. How hot and sweet is it to be sitting so close to your lover, swelling with desire, and only feeling the heat from his skin shimmer across your body?
So, neither squelch desire nor rush towards it. Slow down. Get present. Find the sweet spot.
And keep yourself always ready for just little bit more.
The following poem is featured in her upcoming book, “From 6 to 9 and Beyond,” which uses stories, poetry and visionary photography by Sequoia Emmanuelle to capture the erotic awakening of six feminine archetypes. She plans on donating 10% of the book profits to All We Want Is Love, an organization that ends sex trafficking. Learn more about the project here.
Unexpressed Desire
Unexpressed Desire
By Candice Holdorf
Cool raindrops on my window.
A liquid warmth insulates
The soft Sunday morning
(The grey skies
A cozy backdrop
For our scene)
A liquid warmth insulates
The soft Sunday morning
(The grey skies
A cozy backdrop
For our scene)
My bare right thigh
Rests on your pajama-ed leg.
My right hand slipped
Under your left
As my palm inhales
The heat from your ribs.
Rests on your pajama-ed leg.
My right hand slipped
Under your left
As my palm inhales
The heat from your ribs.
You hover on the edge
Of a waking snooze.
A soft snore rises
From your throat.
A moment frozen
With desire.
Of a waking snooze.
A soft snore rises
From your throat.
A moment frozen
With desire.
This could go in any direction.
On the one hand,
I hate to disturb your sweet surrender,
Like a nostalgic portrait
Studied by professors
And glanced over by disinterested tourists
As they rush through the gallery.
I hate to disturb your sweet surrender,
Like a nostalgic portrait
Studied by professors
And glanced over by disinterested tourists
As they rush through the gallery.
On the other hand,
I want nothing more than to feel
Your lips brushing the side of my neck.
Your entire fist slowly twisting inside me.
Your coarse fingers mashing my left breast,
Squeezing out my nipple and tugging with your teeth.
I want nothing more than to feel
Your lips brushing the side of my neck.
Your entire fist slowly twisting inside me.
Your coarse fingers mashing my left breast,
Squeezing out my nipple and tugging with your teeth.
Another soft snore.
A resigned sigh.
I pull my hand out from your shirt
In one, cottony stroke.
Unraveling from you,
I tiptoe to the door
A resigned sigh.
I pull my hand out from your shirt
In one, cottony stroke.
Unraveling from you,
I tiptoe to the door
Turning in time
To see your lazy smile
And half-opened eyes.
“I’ll let you get some rest,”
I whisper, as the door firmly latches
Behind my back.
To see your lazy smile
And half-opened eyes.
“I’ll let you get some rest,”
I whisper, as the door firmly latches
Behind my back.
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