Not fucking you was beautiful

Today I think about the kind of love that happens in those moments when love doesn’t seem like a possibility.

The kind of love that disperses in hot breath, on hot necks; in two index fingers between that miraculously smooth parting, between those miraculously smooth and perfect cheeks.

The kind of love, lost on the hunter – orgastically sinking teeth deep into skin, and membrane and sinew.

Pulsing flows out that perfect gesture.

Instead – this bite is different.

It draws me out, but I do not expend.

I lie there, pinned – not quite as sleek as I’d prefer. At first clawing to consume, I meet your posture and fold accordingly.

I pull past the desire for the hot froth of that wasted apex – and I greet you, warm to you, rest with you.

I played internally for half an hour with every crease of expectation, each flux rolling like the surging only in love.

And then I remembered your email about erotica.

And I understood.

 

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2 comments
  1. thenarcissistwrites said:

    Hot stuff 🙂

    Like

    • It was. Very hot. And at the same time, a revelation. Thanks for reading 🙂 x

      Like

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