Regarding the sublime moisture of a sexually aroused woman, the American ex-Poet Laureate Robert Hass said that while many of the fluids of the human body are named with English words, at least one wasn't. He noted that the auld Anglo-Saxons had a word for that precious ambrosia that women exude for their lover. They called it *silm,* which also referred to the look of moonlight on the water. The poet Hass bemoaned a vocabulary that would ignore such an important part of our human experience.
The poetry of silm as moonlight on water is so much more conducive to actually generating pussy juice than the word *slime* which is what those modern patronizing fuckers use now. As a writer, I think any of us can and should make up words if a common word doesn’t convey the right feeling or intention. And why not? When one is writing fiction it is not like non-fiction such that the vocabulary is more imaginary and expansive. It was probably writers who actually coined words that later found a home in dictionaries.
Do I sound a bit offended or even hostile about this? I’m not really. It’s just that once I embarked on my genre, I was dismayed at how some of my words or stories triggered so many people whom I am sure are either having sex and enjoying it or wishing they were. That’s the entire point, isn’t it? I’m a writer of spicy romance. My work is always about love and relationship, sensuality and connection, all the dramatic spiciness of a life well-lived. We can find that deliciousness in nature, in the kitchen, the garden, the art gallery, in music and poetry as well as each other if we care to look for it.
I write about silm and cum and jizz and such, because to me both a woman’s silm and a man’s cum are like moonlight on water. When one is sexually healthy and mindful then those precious fluids are experienced as the essence of life-making, life-enhancing ambrosia. There are those of us who relish that moisture between our legs and know it to be a regenerative gift. But I’ve also been told by others that feel the aftermath of sex is messy and must be washed away immediately. To each her own.
Some people are luckier than others in their sexual experiences. If there is pleasure it is a gift. As for me, pleasure is a calling, my raison d'etre. To hold a sense of pleasure and face the world with a genuine smile, an open, fulfilled and content heart can be a way to exude that very important elemental to others with nary a word nor gesture. This is something that can, nevertheless, be felt and known.
The last story in my first book: Waking Up in the trilogy series, Pleasure as a Higher Calling is exactly about that. The story talks about how the experience of one person’s pleasure radiates not only inward but outward as well. Others may sense something of the contentment and openness and lean into it. They may not understand why or even be aware of the subtle vibrational energy they are experiencing or where it is coming from for certain. But when you stop to think about that for a moment, you may remember bumping into someone and feeling an uplifting shift in your own energy field without any overt sense of sexuality. It's a primal force. It's the life force.
If we can learn to hold a love-tone and share it with the world, we should, shouldn’t we? It’s my pleasure to write my stories and share them with you. If you decide to buy one or any of my books and enjoy them (or even if you don’t – we can’t please everyone, right?) it would be wonderful for me if you would share your honest thoughts by writing a review on Amazon.
By doing so, you would be not only contributing to my success, for which I would be grateful and honored, but you just might nudge another pleasure appreciator to check them out as well. Thanks for being here. I appreciate you!
by Robert Haas
Her body by the fire Mimicked the light-conferring midnights Of philosophy. Suppose they are dead now. Isn’t “dead now” an odd expression? The sound of the owls outside And the wind soughing in the trees Catches in their ears, is sent out In scouting parties of sensation down their spines. If you say it became language or it was nothing, Who touched whom? In what hurtle of starlight? Poor language, poor theory Of language. The shards of skull In the Egyptian museum looked like maps of the wind-eroded Canyon labyrinths from which, Standing on the verge In the yellow of a dwindling fall, you hear Echo and re-echo the cries of terns Fishing the worked silver of a rapids. And what to say of her wetness? The Anglo-Saxons Had a name for it. They called it silm. They were navigators. It was also Their word for the look of moonlight on the sea.