Oh god fuck me

Fuck me with orange juice, its concentrated sweetness, which makes the mouth as happy as summer, leaves sweet flecks of foam like spit along the inside of the glass. Once when I was supposed to lector read out loud at daily Mass, I glanced at the reading beforehand and saw it was something about Jerusalem offering her abundant breasts to suck and fondling you on her lap from Isaiah 66, I think. When I first started going to Mass, in my thirties, I'd been studying Saint Augustine and was soaked in his language of intense longing for God. The passion, the body, can get pretty drowsy and domesticated in church, like urgent desire does if you give it warm milk and don't poke it with a stick. This title immediately reminded me of a Catholic friend and his college theology professor, who had asked his freshman class, " Is God fuckable? I discovered that it is an endangered species of cake. Fuck me with my kitchen faucet, dripping like a nymphomaniac, all night slowly filling a filling, then overflowing the bowls in the sink—— and with the downstairs neighbor's vacuum, that great sucking noisy dragon making the dirty come clean.

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What about flashing Moses with his bum--how shy was that?

oh god fuck me

I wasn't surprised at all that in one of the first homilies I heard, the priest said he wanted Jesus to be his lover. Speaking of trees, fuck me with birds, say, and enormous raucous crow, proud as a man with his hand down his pants, and then a sparrow, intimately brown, discreet and cautious as a concubine. I was standing in a bookstore in London flipping through an anthology of contemporary poetry called Being Alive Neil Astley, ed.