Monday, December 05, 2005

You ask me all the time why I can’t share with you in person what I can in prose.

I feel like if the words I had in my head came into the real world and escaped the pixels you read on the screen that it’d be too far, that there would be no going back, and frankly that scares me.

I’m not accustomed to telling people what I need. Or want.

How can I look you in the eyes and tell you how badly I want to lock eyes with you as you slide down my body? That I wonder about the scent of the insides of your thighs? What it’d be like to kiss your wrists, elbows, the backs of your knees? To stroke my hand along your cheek and feel my cock inside your mouth, poking and prodding out, your skin flush and red and hot?

What's on my mind, you ask.

So many things...sometimes, I confess, I can't keep my eyes away from stealing looks. At your forehead. At your brastrap. Just at you in general.

How does someone tell someone that? I’m of the firm believer that fantasy is above reality and I dare not ruin that for you.

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