A poem in praise of voluptuousness

So I was idly browsing one of many subs dedicated to nudey pics this morning, when I stumbled across [a photo of an awe-strikingly beautiful curvaceous woman](https://www.reddit.com/r/RateMyNudeBody/comments/bcokw2/side_view_rate_please_leave_comments/) **[WARNING: link is NSFW]** which — for want of a better phrase — set my soul on fire.

The lady in question had invited Redditors to provide detailed descriptions of the things they liked about her body. My spirit (and libido) having been pricked, I decided to write a poem in response. The words trickled, and they flowed, and then turned into a torrent. I experienced a flow state the likes of which I hadn’t been able to conjour in months; possibly years. And all because of a naked pic of a wonderfully full-bodied queen. Inspiration is a strange beast.

When I had finished, I couldn’t leave it alone. It was kind of like the pleasure/pain experience of picking at a scab. I was consumed by the desire to write, and eventually realised that the act of creating the poem itself had become more stimulating than the wonderfully gorgeous (IMHO) woman who had inspired it. So I tweaked, edited and reread for tone, imagery and voice.

The end result is below. It’s more of an ode to plus-sized women in general than the particular vision of womanhood I started writing it for.

In retrospect, posting a long-ass poem to a subreddit focused on rating naked photos wasn’t the smartest idea I had today. Even though no one commented on it, I decided it it was a bit too weird and intense, so I deleted the original. I don’t think she ever saw it. However, I wanted to share the reworked version with an audience who might be more appreciative?

Forgive me if my tract is not entirely appropriate to this sub… I’m a newbie around these parts. Be gentle!

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[Warning: the poetic horniness of a male FA follows. It’s not explicit, but it it is… open and honest?]

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>A Woman
>
>You. The personification of womanhood: a soft, melted metaphor of carnal wantonness, spiced with maternal promise, and harmonised into a fantastical soup of sensuality.
>
>Your full shape is the map of all human desire:
>
>Thighs — wide, mottled like the majestic leopard; stretched and marked, with patterned rivulets reaching out, rushing to meet with the lightest of touches; cracking like ash to reveal the embers of your vivacity and passion.
>
>Suitors yearn to trace each line with a finger, seeing which pathway raises the longed for response: a sigh that lifts layers of dust from lust, in repose; seething sexuality buffeted and awakened with jagged predatory aggression.
>
>The curve of your hip is the sonorous echo of a mating call from beyond the ages, radiating from your pores to these pixels. Its ancient arc cleaves raw need; a piercing passion lighting fires in the deep crevasses of my soul; yearning for no other goal than the satisfaction of procreation: an instinct pure and base and honest. It does not lie; distilled and naked it sits, ready to take flight, circling in search of a crag in which it can ensconce itself — insulated and protected from harm under your plump plumage and delicate pulpy wings.
>
>Your soft belly is a fecund altar for kings. They answer to no one except their gods, and as they kneel are instantly consumed. That warm reservoir which shifts and quakes with each joyful movement, moment to moment, inviting the weary and energetic alike to lay their heads face down in supplication.
>
>And if they were to look up they would see the face of Eroticism herself: towering, radiant, amused — like the sun shining its tainted benevolence down between mothering mounds. And there each of us would willingly die, drunk on the knowledge of a Woman who knows herself too well.
>
>Peeling eyes skyward from soft plains, to majestic mounts — your breasts sit like jilted sentinels. Speaking of succour and thrills, twin domes packed and pouting with promise flood the gaze. Thick pointed, puckered peaks rise up and look down upon us, the dirty dishevelled throng. Gently pocked areolae beam like warming beacons; their silent siren song throwing tuneless tendrils of madness out to hapless men and women, lost in a sea of blank thoughts; addled by your sight. No fingers anchored to the realms of reason can withstand the charm: mouths that willingly draw near exhale free will, causing countless souls to resign their grip upon the earth.
>
>Seemingly the one intent on devouring will be the devoured.
>
>It is all we weak-willed mortals can do to behold and admire your flesh: packages of pleasure, unwrapped for all; rapt withal we anticipate the nurture gifted by your pregnant fruits … We entreat and explore. Yearn to touch. Ache to consume. And still they dangle, tempting us beyond our reach.
>
>Your miracle: a body that serves and is served. A contradiction of tightness and looseness. The bread of men. The basket of reproduction. The dancefloor of delight. This. A queen over the queerness of life. You. Pleasure indefinable. Us. Fumbling, grasping for the unobtainable:
>
>Your exquisiteness.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/bd6cmq/a_poem_in_praise_of_voluptuousness