Quotes About Sensuality

Under your skin the moon is alive.

I hold a dramatic and romantic concept of life; What doesn't touch my senses means nothing to me

I remember only a day that was perhaps never intended for me, it was an incessant day, without origins, Thursday. I was a man transported by chance with a woman vaguely found, we undressed as if to die or swim or grow old and we thrust ourselves one inside the other, she surrounding me like a hole, I cracking her like a bell, for she was the sound that wounded me and the hard dome determined to tremble.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

My love, suddenly your hip is the curve of the wineglass filled to the brim, your breast is the cluster, your hair the light of alcohol, your nipples, the grapes your navel pure seal stamped on your barrel of a belly, and your love the cascade of unquenchable wine, the brightness that falls on my senses, the earthen splendor of life.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle, and even your breasts smell of it. While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth. — Pablo Neruda, from "XIV [Every day you play with the light of the universe.]," Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despai r, in The Poetry of Pablo Neruda , ed. Ilan Stavans (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2003)

I am hungry for your silken laughter, For your hands the color of savage harvest, Hungry for the pail stones of your fingernails. I want to eat your skin like a whole almond. from "Love Sonnet XI

Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations; your skin throbs like the streak of a meteror through rain. Your hips were that much of the moon for me; and deep mouth and its delights, that much sun; your heart, fiery with its long red rays, was that much ardent light, like honey in the shade. So I pass across your burning form, kissing you—compact and planetary, from Love Sonnet "XVI

Your Feet When I cannot look at your face I look at your feet. Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet. I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them. Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower. But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.

Invade me with your hot mouth; interrogate me with your night-eyes, if you want—only let me steer like a ship through your name; let me rest there.

Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk. Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence! Oh the pink roses of the pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad!

Of everything I have seen, it's you I want to go on seeing: Of everything I've touched, it's your flesh I want to go on touching. I love your orange laughter. I am moved by the sight of you sleeping. — Pablo Neruda, from "Amor," Intimacies: Poems of Love. (Harper; 1st edition, October 28, 2008)

Oh invádeme con tu boca abrasadora, indágame, si quieres, con tus ojos nocturnos, pero en tu nombre déjame navegar y dormir.

You have deep eyes in which the night flails. Cool arms of flowers and a lap of rose.

Sex and art are the same thing.

I am who I am, which is a combination of all I know, and I've always believed that striving to be a sensual person, or being sexy, should not conflict with intelligence. Women have fought hard so that we do not need to limit ourselves.

It's not so much where I want you,Sophie, as it is how. Nothing tastes quite like a woman, and no woman tastes like you. - Marc Hunter

A life without orgasms is like a world without flowers.

SM is an art. Doing it well requires more than a bag full of expensive whips and exotic electrical toys, a closet full of fetish clothes, or a basement filled with bondage furniture.

She pronounced each word carefully, as though she was tasting fruit. The words of her poems were a most private and fragrant orchard.

I would say, "Breathe deeply," and you would breathe and remember that smell for the rest of your life, the bold, fecund aroma of the tidal marsh, exquisite and sensual, the smell of the South in heat, a smell like new milk, semen, and spilled wine, all perfumed with seawater. My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of indrawn tides.

Even the pearl at her earlobe looked alive, like a drop of water that a touch might destroy.

Thinking no more about it, he stepped off into that cool space, that fast descent to her, with nothing in his mind but a memory of a curve of her shoulder, naked, as he had never seen it.

Therese leaned closer toward it, looking down at her glass. She wanted to thrust the table aside and spring into her arms, to bury her nose in the green and gold scarf that was tied close about her neck. Once the backs of their hands brushed on the table, and Therese's skin there felt separately alive now, and rather burning.