She Wants It
Celebrating the power of female desire
She wants to eat cake without guilt, without worry that it will make her bigger, without being afraid to take up too much space. She wants to share her feelings loudly and without apology. She wants to say, Yes, I want it, without hesitation, without having to carry other people’s judgment.
She just wants it.
She wants searching kisses, tongues touching, the kind of kisses that inspire the deepest of hungers. She wants the lightest touch of lips against her neck, trailing up to her ear. She wants the tender skin of her earlobe to be consumed, sucked on, nibbled on. Bitten.
She wants to laugh — from deep down in her belly. She wants to take in a long breath and let out a longer one. She wants to lean in close, to let herself be seduced by the warmth of someone else’s skin, by curious fingers, by voracious lips.
She wants to muss up the sheets, leaving them in tangled bunches across the mattress. She wants to flatten the pillows with the impact of her body, or let them be strewn across the floor, toppled over the edge of the bed in all the tumult of ecstatic bodies.
She wants to feel the heaviness in her breasts, the longing for a lover to be nourished there, laying a head against them, holding them in the cup of a palm, drawing them against an eager tongue. She wants to feel the tug of her sacred lineage, the creatrix of the world who gave birth to all living beings and who nurtures them at her breast. She wants to remember her sacredness.
She wants to let her legs fall open wildly or perhaps slowly, with total abandon. She wants to invite another into her universe. She wants to feel the unbelievable, overwhelming, intoxicating pull inward, the pull of the ocean tide between a woman’s legs, greedy and grabbing and insistent.
She wants the tug of that tide to be satisfied in the way only a lover can satisfy it — with another’s crashing waves spilling into the endless, depthless canyon of female desire.
She wants to rise on all fours like her ancestors of the wild woods. She wants to lie on her back and feel covered, protected, loved. She wants to be on top, celebrating her power, her pleasure, her audaciousness.
She wants to crash together with the sound of colliding bones like two stags sparring. She wants to move softly and slowly, like a river lapping at its rocky bed. She wants to open like a flower revealing its pollen-speckled stamens to an eager bee. She wants to be swept away by the hurricane of her desire.
She wants to be in control. She wants to surrender.
She wants to come so hard that mountains shudder, lakes giggle, and clouds sigh. She wants to be one, once more, with the moon, the ocean, the darkest places in the woods.
She wants sovereignty. She wants pleasure. She wants the power that has always been hers: the power to venture into and out of the underworld, to take another being into her body, to animate heavenly bodies, to shift tectonic plates.
She wants it. She wants it all.
This article was written for Howl by Yael Wolfe, a weekly column. © Yael Wolfe 2020
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