Can't sleep. The lust has got a hold on me. Just me, alone, watching the glowing ember sixes turn into eights by the simple introduction of another crimson mark. It's this color that so emulates the reason for my tossing and turning. And it just so happens to be your entire fault.
Heated by our sexually charged conversation from earlier tonight, my deviant nature can't help but start to wonder. Mmmmmmm... how would you feel? Shivers. Shudders. Playing in my head, several smut films all rolled into one; fast-forwarding to the best parts. Similar to the housewife who cracks the spine of her latest Nora Roberts novel, skipping ahead to the written fucks while her husband of thirteen years is away at work and her three children are passed out on the floor from a water gun fight in the back yard. Welcome to Suburbia.
Her eyes scan, faster and faster, begging for the next word, the next phrase that could possibly alleviate her symptoms, but alas, they are only words. Fragments of reality, a dialogue between two fictitious characters, soon words are gone. And when those words oozing of delight and secret pleasures so undeniably vivid end, it is then the woman sighs. Wishing for a man to come along and swoop her off her feet. Soon the words are just letters on a cheap page in a paperback found in Wal-Mart for three dollars. Soon she realizes that Walt Disney was a liar. That no princess has a prince. There is no castle, no glass slipper, and no magic kiss. She's pissed. And has a right to be. Now her kids are awake, and the crow's feet deepen around her tired eyes.
Four thirty nine. It's been a couple of hours since we talked. And still I cannot sleep. I bite my lip in pure anguish. To sleep to dream... Ah, I wish. Instead I delight in the torment of the mere idea of your skin... bare against mine.
I'm coming to Baltimore.
When?
The 17th.
With that I'm thinking. My head spinning, churning through plays dripping with sweat and blood. Mmmhmmmm... just don't let it stop. Let me count the ways.
Case No. 1:
We meet. You're shy as you said you would be. And it's okay. I have come prepared. We decide to get some drinks. TGIF? Sure. That okay with you? Yeah. Ok. By the way, I know I've already had at least three cigarettes. I'm so nervous I gave up on quitting. So we sit in the smoking section by the bar. You order a beer, I order something girly. A mango berry daiquiri. Something with a cute umbrella. We talk, I'm smoking. I really don't know what to say because I'm still thinking about sex. I drop my lighter by accident. It just happens to fall on your side of the booth. Being the gentleman you are, you pick it up from underneath the table. And I just so happen to be wearing a skirt, and I just so happen to have my legs spread wide open.
Cut Scene.
Mr. Durden... add in a clip from a porno please. You're choice. Thank You.
Downfall No. 1:
The lighter falls on my side.
You're too much of a good guy to even take a peek.
I chicken out and work for plan no. 2.
Case No. 2:
Same beginning. Except we go to Panera to eat, because I remember your diet. Maybe there is something there for you. We eat, I pick at my food because I'm nervous and self-conscious. We go get drinks. Same deal. Except... instead of worrying about the lighter I do the whole foot under the table bit with a twist, that instead, we're not playing footsies, I'm rubbing you through your jeans.
Downfall No. 2:
I accidentally kick you. (I'm only suave in my thoughts)
You hate feet.
I never got around to getting a pedicure, so I keep my feet hidden and move on.
Case No. 3:
To be honest, I can't think of any more cases. I'm too busy painting my fantasies to even care. I turn to look at the clock, trying to deny myself access to thoughts of your smile and the precious little gap between your two front teeth; your broad shoulders, your masculine hands, your dark skin, the way your eyes hazed over when I turned you on with my own kinks.
Whatever god, please deliver me from sin.
But no one hears my cry for mercy, and in my mind, neither do you. Teasing me to the point it hurts, it aches. To the point that I'm whimpering. I want it. I want to be face down, buried in a pillow. My back arched, and you behind me. I swear I can almost feel your hands on either side of my waist pulling me with each imaginative thrust. I swear I can almost taste the sweat, hear the sound of my own moaning, muffled by twisted sheets and my own hand covering my mouth to keep from screaming. I swear that I'm... completely and totally unashamed to admit that I am pleasuring myself at this very moment.
And I'm completely and totally let down when the dream fades and all I feel are my hands, all I can smell is my perfume, and all I see is darkness. Suddenly, I envy that housewife for her simplicity. She wishes for a knight from the Round Table. Mine I know, is sleeping alone several miles away somewhere in the heart of New Orleans.
Heated by our sexually charged conversation from earlier tonight, my deviant nature can't help but start to wonder. Mmmmmmm... how would you feel? Shivers. Shudders. Playing in my head, several smut films all rolled into one; fast-forwarding to the best parts. Similar to the housewife who cracks the spine of her latest Nora Roberts novel, skipping ahead to the written fucks while her husband of thirteen years is away at work and her three children are passed out on the floor from a water gun fight in the back yard. Welcome to Suburbia.
Her eyes scan, faster and faster, begging for the next word, the next phrase that could possibly alleviate her symptoms, but alas, they are only words. Fragments of reality, a dialogue between two fictitious characters, soon words are gone. And when those words oozing of delight and secret pleasures so undeniably vivid end, it is then the woman sighs. Wishing for a man to come along and swoop her off her feet. Soon the words are just letters on a cheap page in a paperback found in Wal-Mart for three dollars. Soon she realizes that Walt Disney was a liar. That no princess has a prince. There is no castle, no glass slipper, and no magic kiss. She's pissed. And has a right to be. Now her kids are awake, and the crow's feet deepen around her tired eyes.
Four thirty nine. It's been a couple of hours since we talked. And still I cannot sleep. I bite my lip in pure anguish. To sleep to dream... Ah, I wish. Instead I delight in the torment of the mere idea of your skin... bare against mine.
I'm coming to Baltimore.
When?
The 17th.
With that I'm thinking. My head spinning, churning through plays dripping with sweat and blood. Mmmhmmmm... just don't let it stop. Let me count the ways.
Case No. 1:
We meet. You're shy as you said you would be. And it's okay. I have come prepared. We decide to get some drinks. TGIF? Sure. That okay with you? Yeah. Ok. By the way, I know I've already had at least three cigarettes. I'm so nervous I gave up on quitting. So we sit in the smoking section by the bar. You order a beer, I order something girly. A mango berry daiquiri. Something with a cute umbrella. We talk, I'm smoking. I really don't know what to say because I'm still thinking about sex. I drop my lighter by accident. It just happens to fall on your side of the booth. Being the gentleman you are, you pick it up from underneath the table. And I just so happen to be wearing a skirt, and I just so happen to have my legs spread wide open.
Cut Scene.
Mr. Durden... add in a clip from a porno please. You're choice. Thank You.
Downfall No. 1:
The lighter falls on my side.
You're too much of a good guy to even take a peek.
I chicken out and work for plan no. 2.
Case No. 2:
Same beginning. Except we go to Panera to eat, because I remember your diet. Maybe there is something there for you. We eat, I pick at my food because I'm nervous and self-conscious. We go get drinks. Same deal. Except... instead of worrying about the lighter I do the whole foot under the table bit with a twist, that instead, we're not playing footsies, I'm rubbing you through your jeans.
Downfall No. 2:
I accidentally kick you. (I'm only suave in my thoughts)
You hate feet.
I never got around to getting a pedicure, so I keep my feet hidden and move on.
Case No. 3:
To be honest, I can't think of any more cases. I'm too busy painting my fantasies to even care. I turn to look at the clock, trying to deny myself access to thoughts of your smile and the precious little gap between your two front teeth; your broad shoulders, your masculine hands, your dark skin, the way your eyes hazed over when I turned you on with my own kinks.
Whatever god, please deliver me from sin.
But no one hears my cry for mercy, and in my mind, neither do you. Teasing me to the point it hurts, it aches. To the point that I'm whimpering. I want it. I want to be face down, buried in a pillow. My back arched, and you behind me. I swear I can almost feel your hands on either side of my waist pulling me with each imaginative thrust. I swear I can almost taste the sweat, hear the sound of my own moaning, muffled by twisted sheets and my own hand covering my mouth to keep from screaming. I swear that I'm... completely and totally unashamed to admit that I am pleasuring myself at this very moment.
And I'm completely and totally let down when the dream fades and all I feel are my hands, all I can smell is my perfume, and all I see is darkness. Suddenly, I envy that housewife for her simplicity. She wishes for a knight from the Round Table. Mine I know, is sleeping alone several miles away somewhere in the heart of New Orleans.
I knew them all too well.
Loneliness leads you to unsavory companions.
The ritual of petitioning my displeasure with daily offerings transmuted nothing.
The most positive thing in my life was making a list of what I didn't want.
One day I wanted, needed, craved in an unknown direction for the unknown.
Instead of just accepting anything and being thankful for a handful of ashes.
I made the unknown, known. Once a thing is known, it can't be unknown.
Without making a list of polar opposites to contradict what I had before, I examined what I didn't share and why.
I wrote what I wanted, needed, desired and craved, painfully things i wouldn't admit came out beautifully.
The image of a Navajo shaman who wakes each day to chant existence into being filled my mind.
His only thought being that if he didn't, who would?
I began to speak them as I wrote. Each one taking life forever.
The time for living in my own head was over.
Just the verbal petition to no one and no thing...
Just to know that the action was done, I could take this one to my grave, gratefully.
Just this brought me the peace to accept the possibility that it could never happen.
I was also at peace and could accept and be open to the possibility that it could happen.
Nothing greater has happened to me.
When you slammed into me, I mean hugged me, I was stunned.
I didn't know how to hold you.
My senses overloaded with the sound of your moving, your smells, the feel of your heart beating, your breath, your subvocal moaning vibrating on my collar bone.
I put my arms around you.
Not wanting to let go but knowing that everything must end, I relaxed my arms to give you space to leave.
You sunk into me deeper and tighter.
That's where you have been ever since.
I love you.