I want it right there. The seat of your libido planted squarely over the anvil of my vocalizations. Folds, ridges, membranes, nodules, cavities. (Dentistry?) I want to drink solely by sips; I want to eat without swallowing while the feast of you looms near. My arms wrap around your thighs and travel up the sides of your body to your breasts, where, while my lips and tongue push you orgasmwards, I play your nipples until you bark out your pleasure like a sea lion.
I want it right there. The careful introduction, the emergence of punctuality, the egotistical permutation, the purposeful demolition. I said it out loud. I want you to ask me. I want to tell you.
Where does it go? I want to stop with you, be in a room with you, exist with you. After taking turns coming like crazy, we could breathe together and perhaps quietly converse over the coming days and weeks.
There is more than one. I can count them on the fingers of one hand, but whose hand? Hers? Mine? Yours?
I’m thinking about building a combination restaurant and car wash.