I spent days and days crafting this reply to someone here 5 years ago. Perhaps, if you take your careful time and analyze what I wrote, you will understand the intensity of my experiences shared with loving my little lover in my past.
I have no examples in mind. I have just hypothetical ruminations. Yet I do have experiences that I draw upon for extrapolation.
From one mind to another, from one set of senses to another, from a giving to a receiving, from a touch to a touch, from a pleasure to a … what? Pleasure, as well? Experience – as well as common sense, aside from the physical senses – tells me, yes: pleasure. On a scale from 1 to 10? Don’t be silly. Off the scale.
Curves. Calculatable by complex equations but irrelevant to their perception. Their computation complexity ruins the effect. Yet, as a biologist would see it, curves are not pretty. Not artistic. Functional. Designed with multiple disciplines in mind. Functional for one thing, functional for another as well. Biological in both respects: one to execute a biological program of recursive and perpetual progression; one to facilitate a perpetuation of the biological program doing the recursion. A pleasant and functional circle of logic.
Yet, those same curves, analogue, definable in some mathematical space, functional as just described, bears no resemblance to what intercourse manages – managed in my past – to occur in my mind. In your mind, should you follow these same referred to curves. If you are gifted as I am in the appreciation of these curves, then my words here will make sense. (Aside from the physical senses, of course.)
Yet my goal here is to share, not with the choir, but with the plebiscites whose political/sociological unit I am but upon the fringe of. To do this, I must equate my extrapolations to something they can grasp. To speak their language. To translate beauty, love, and spirituality into the “sums of the squares of the other two sides.” To describe a rainbow to a blind man. It is said that such a goal is theoretically unreachable.
Thus, expecting to fail, I try nevertheless. The only question is why do I try? Why not sing only with the choir? I have no answer. Vanity, perhaps? Stupidity? Tilting at giants? ("Take care, sir," cried Sancho. "Those over there are not giants but windmills.) No, Sancho, they are, indeed, giants. They just look like windmills.
I have shared a touch. Often. I have been the supplier of ecstasy. I have been to the moon and beyond. So very few of even the actual choir has managed to take the journey I have. And these have covetous desires, not only for the curves I have visited, but for the memories of such journeys I carry. And the others? They know of which I write. They know. They have tasted the rainbow, heard the aroma of a voice. Even synesthesia does not express such thoughts in such intensities that they and I know of.
What would anyone know? Besides the very few travelers who have been to the world I hypothesize about, who could understand the feel of warmth when added to the feel of motion when added to the knowledge I have that my recipient is traveling to places in the hypothetical world with me? What would anyone know of the forceful emotion driving not only the one kissing but the one being kissed? Does my kiss equate to the cold mundane spit swapping that those who don’t travel in my hypothetical universe kiss with? Does the heartbeat of HER equate to the rushed hooker’s boredom? What would anyone know of the pull used to bring me closer to HER? The claw-marks embedded in my ears? What would anyone know of the joy of feeling heat on both sides of my face – knowing from whence it came? What would anyone know of the tensing, of the rapture, of the near maximum of experiential abilities? What would anyone know of the sedate afterglow and the lips leaving one valley like sensitive altar up to the narrow prairie new to such attention – attention that promises that such ecstasy may yet continue from a different journey, a journey of slow simmering love? Of comfortable co-existence, body to body, heartbeat slowing to quiet recovery? Of snuggling grip upon each other? Of hypnotic one-ness with each other. Of childish amazement at just how potent emotions can be when cajoled into lofty heights by simple kisses.
Perhaps, in rare cases, the ordinary masses may harbor someone or two who might understand this all. But that understanding, so far as I can tell, will come only from someone similar to whom I have experienced these things mutually with. So, while the world goes through these words without recognition, I can say I have tried.