To quote many sources, mostly my good friend ceno, writers write. And I need to get back into the practice of writing. So back to the blog folks. But here's the problem: my brain is stuck in a groove and I need to get it unstuck.
One of the best signs I can point to that I'm a lot healthier over all since, say, a month ago, is that my libido is back. And not like 'Hmm, I could go for sex when it happens,' but instead 'Holy shit, I need this NOW! RAWR!!!' And as a sign of this, my dreams have been just OVER RUN with the sexiness. We all dream hundreds of dreams, and I remember a huge percentage of them, and of those, about half are with the sexy times. So I'm going to write this out.
Point one: If you don't want to read about my sexy thoughts, stop now. Seriously, just step away from the blog and go play with a puppy, or read a book, or have your own sexy thoughts.
Point two: IF you're still here this post is not about any specific female. This isn't a love lorn post pining away for affection. This is me trying to get some of this out of my head, some place else so I stop waking up in the middle of the night going 'Damnit!' If you feel the need to read this as directed at you, feel free as well. Far be it from me to stop any one else's fantasy.
What I Want.
I want you naked. I want you sitting with the lights on, but your eyes are covered. I want to explore. I want to find all the places you hide, all the places even you don't know about.
I want to run my very sensitive fingers over every small part of you, touch every single place I can. Soft, hard, light feathery touches, pressure in knots of muscle. I want to listen to every noise you make as I run a hand over your curves, watching for the movement of muscles under your skin as your nerves react and are heightened by the lack of sight.
I want to smell you. I want to uncover every single scent you hold, as you sweat, as you shudder, I want to know you without seeing you.
I want to taste you. I want to find every single pore with my tongue so that your taste is imprinted in my mind with such clarity that by closing my eyes I can recall the sensation of you moving around me as I find all your physical secrets.
I want to be inside you. I want to inhabit you so you know every single feeling that I feel, so that every single moment we are near you find the memory stirring.
What I Want
I hate meetings like this. Sitting there as new policy is unrolled and some dork just drones on as he reads from a paper, the same paper we've been given, as the exact same words roll across a power point display in a half lit room. I'm always amazed that with all the media available all it has done is given people multiple ways to be completely fucking boring in as many ways as possible.
You take a seat next to me. We've known each other for years, always flirted, it's just one of those things. But today, you smell ... different. When I smile and nod, you give me a half lift of an eyebrow and purr 'Is this seat taken?' and I growl back 'I'll take it if you'll share it.' The joke is so bad I blush, you laugh, we settle back and wait for the boring to begin.
I start it. I write on my pad, 'So fuckin' boring!' I draw a little stick man hanging himself. You draw a boner on it, much more detailed than anything else and write 'I think about David Carradine too.' I roll my eyes and doodle a nut for a bolt. You write a question mark, then 'Last time for you?'
At this point the man clears his throat and raises his voice, we both look up like kids caught passing notes in school, and he drones, louder, 'This next part is quite important so pay attention.'
Your hand grabs my thigh and squeezes as you give me a horrified expression and mouth 'We're so busted!' At first I think you mouth 'You're so wasted.' I'm confused, then smirk, shaking my head. Your hand does not leave my thigh. I write 'Are you afraid I'll run away and leave you holding the bag?' You write 'I could hold a bag for you.'
I'm not sure how to take this. Never before has our flirting ever gone this far, but I'm not disappointed. I write, 'It doesn't need to be held, well, not with a hand.'
My thigh is squeezed, I sit up and cough, your nails brushing further up and finding out how much I'm liking the attention.
For the next ten minutes we stare up at the power point presentation but I don't remember a thing as you draw tiny words on the inside of my thigh with your nails.
Finally break time.
I stand up, smile at you, and leave. As I step out of the room I head down the hall and lean against the wall, as you come out, I take out my pack and say 'Smoke?' You don't but say 'Sure.'
We get into the stairwell and go down two flights before cutting into another floor, trying doors as we walk along until we find an open door. We don't bother speaking as we slip into the room.
No lights are turned on, we just tear at each other. This is not love, this is not passion, this is nothing but the unleashing of pure savage animal lust. We don't even bother getting our clothes off, we just get the parts open or pushed aside as we slam into each other finding all the different ways two bodies can get as close as possible with several layers of cloth between them.
You bite at me, my tongue, my neck, my lips.
I grasp you, squeezing your breasts, your ass. I run a hand down your thigh to grab your knee, lifting it so I can feel the muscle of your calf.
So little noise is made except the explosions of breath and the shaking of furniture. I don't even know what we're banging into.
You growl and bite my shoulder so hard I can hear the seam rip, and I clutch your shoulders as my head shoots backward, following my eyes. We don't uncouple, just stand there, locked in the expression of sex like an erotic sculpture. We don't even breathe. For a moment that will never be forgotten we just stop. Petite mort the French call it. I get it.
We finally let go. Straighten up.
I text my boss that the power point gave me a migraine. You call yours and claim female problems.
We find a new place to explore.
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