Say pretty please

Being naked around you was hard. You weren’t like a lot of other men I had dallied around with in that I could never read your expression. I could never read your thoughts.
The others? I knew what they thought and I knew what they wanted. I was to be traversed. I was to be scaled. Conquered. Ascended. Mounted.
They couldn’t hide their desire, it dripped from the corners of their mouth when their teeth were bared. From that dripping I knew what they thought; I was dinner and they were going to feast.
But you just stared at me. Not through me or past me, but at me. You studied me, as if you were taking measurements of the terrain so your hand placement and footing would be exact.
You plotted your next move. There was no instinct or wild fury that you unleashed. Everything you did was for a reason. When you cupped between my legs it was to loosen my back and knees to make me more pliable. Your thumb against my lips was to coax me to suckle and bite at it, and when I did you would redirect my face to the side so you could sink your teeth into my neck. And even this act, something seemingly driven by hunger was meant to have me make one of two moves; bring you in tight with my legs wrapping around your waist or to drop listless into your arms and become an amenable doll for your every whim.

Even if we shared these moments of carnal depravity I still questioned your mind. You wanted me, or did you? I’d had become so accustomed to being ravaged that a methodical approach to orgasmic bliss never became comfortable. Although that is the story of our relationship, I was never fully comfortable with you and you sure as hell weren’t with me. But when you wanted me you were of single mind and focus. I never knew what hit me.

But being naked around you was hard, which was strange because I had never felt self conscious about my body. Men usually grunted in approval when I disrobed. I grew to enjoy that sound because it felt natural. It was pure. You can’t fake that.
That stare of yours was piercing and I felt you could read my thoughts. You could pick out every insecurity that I had. My breasts were too small. My shoulders too broad. My fingers too thin and long. I wasn’t skinny enough, slightly pudgy and not at all firm like the workout models you were so often known for cavorting with. You didn’t tell me any of these things but society has made every beautiful woman question herself.

To feel less naked I bought a necklace. It was a small, golden necklace that locked at the back of my neck and had another strand that ran a few inches down my chest. It hung there along my cleavage before I removed my bra and I think it distracted you, which was funny to think. The smartest man I’d ever slept with distracted by something shiny. I always smiled when I unhooked my bra for you and that look wavered.
I’d walk over to you and your plotting wasn’t set. Your moves not worked out. The advantage was mine and I plowed myself into you before you could focus. My lips would crash against yours while my hands unbuttoned your shirt all the way down to your pants. A race against time as your disoriented state would only last a short amount of time before adrenaline kicked in. I wanted you in me before that happened.
Often I’d beckon to your masculine nature and kiss whimpers into your ear of wanting and need. I would hypnotize you into controlling your hands to remove your pants and plunge your desire inside of me. Then I had won. You were mine and we would fuck and my hands would be in your hair begging you to finish, all the while you were begging me not to stop.

You were one of my last steps to confidence and it was one of the more difficult lessons to learn. A man can make you feel beautiful, but he can also make you question it if you let him. However, a man will always find you beautiful, and he can’t win if you know that.
You rarely won after that first time. You couldn’t hold your stare on me and I’d win our battle more and more often. We’d both win, in the end, but you were a child and couldn’t stand being on equal footing as if someone knew you than you’d like them to. It’s why we didn’t last.

I’m comfortable in any stage of undress now, thanks to you. I’d say thank you but I think I’d rather just make you wish you could hear those sweet murmuring kisses against your ear begging you to take me. I bet you wish you could still beg me too.

I still call it Twitter

As I posted today on twitter I feel very hung up on the three L’s:

Love
Lust, &
Loss

I’m in a perpetual state of cycling through these feelings. Emotions? States of being. I don’t know if they are just feeding off each other and causing me to spiral down in some kind of way where they always end up trading themselves for the next in line. It would be interesting to chart them to see how often I hit each after falling into one of the others. It would be a great word cloud if my tags weren’t so off the wall and childish. ^{Yes I think I’m trying to be too cool with most of them.}

Whenever I’m on reddit I love perusing the “data is beautiful” sub. The way people much more intelligent than I am can track and manipulate data is breathtaking. Even something so simple as marking an “X” on a calendar every time a task was performed opens up my eyes to the repetitive (or non) way we do things.
I would love if I could track how often I used the love, lust, loss tags – which there essentially is an ability to do that, however I would like to see how often lust comes next from love or if its loss that hits more after it. Am I longing for a former lover and fall into wanting them back and feeling their hands in my hair while their heavy breathing falls on my skin, or am I lamenting their loss and wishing we could have worked out if one of us wasn’t so stubborn. ^{(never me!)}

Lust is fun to write about. I sit myself up proper in my chair, wrap my hair up in a cute ponytail, cross my legs and dash my fingers upon my keys. The more I get worked up the harder I squeeze my thighs and the closer I lean in to my words. I’ll lick my lips. I’ll bite them. I’ll often need a drink of water when I’m done.
I love hearing the responses to my lust-filled musings. Thinking I had a little part in turning the heat up on you lovely readers tickles me oh so much.

Love feels as if its my default setting. I’m a romantic. I’m sick with it and I’d have died a thousand deaths in the Victorian age having wistfully longed for handsome, Darcy-esque men to give my life a meaning. Love inflates me. It sings through birds chirping and that catch of warmth from the sun in the winter. Without the possibility of love I would not survive.

If love is my default setting then loss is blinking light on the oven at 3am after the power goes out. It comes unexpectedly and won’t let you forget it until you put in the effort. Loss hurts, often feeling worse than love but only because of love. Loss hurts because we knew how high into the trees love took us and we stare up at it from the ground where we fell. Loss will always happen if we have love, they are as intertwined as the night and the stars.

I will never stop writing about these because they are what moves me. I’m just a lovesick girl reeling from lost love and lust-filled romance. I’m ruminating on those who walked away, those who disappeared and those who I ran from. I’m alive for those I’ve kissed, the ones I’ve bedded and the few I’ve given parts of my soul to.
I will never stop writing about these three things. I will never stop writing about anything. I will never stop climbing that tree.

I don’t use straws because they suck

I’m collecting bad thoughts like a swear jar and you’re gonna make me broke. Every time I see you I unscrew the lid and listen to the ting ting ting as they drop in. I don’t know much about physics but the sound isn’t echoing as deep anymore. You’re filling me up thinking about you filling me up.
I’ve got raw lips from chewing and there must be a hole burned into the back of your head from the amount of staring I’m doing. Can you feel it? 
Can you feel me?
Can I feel you?

I bet those arms can lift me with ease. Acrobatic nonsense not withstanding I’m always game for a good show. We can sell tickets. Surge pricing in effect.

How do I say, without saying, what I want to say, without saying it?
I could use the words and excuse nuance for the night, or would you rather I mouth them with barely a breath pressed against your ear and see if you can read lips. 
My mouth is watering or I might just be rabid.

I dress down nicer than I dress up, and these press on nails were made to be broken. I’m sorry I dragged those red lines down your back but I wanted to see what it would make you do. I’m also sorry because what it made you do is going to make me do it again.
Next time harder.

When you see that glint in my eye you should know that all bets are off. Vegas is even too scared to take on that kind of action. Don’t bet it all, just try and cover the spread.

All I’m doing is wondering as I sit here with crossed legs and a curious heart. Will this feeling pass, or will I sink to the bottom of the pool? 
Rescue me.

Of a request on anticipation

There was that time before I really knew you where I felt an uneasiness in our interactions. I’m awkward and I can never anticipate what any person is thinking when they talk with me, and you always made me feel so inferior in every way. It wasn’t always your fault, sometimes I have the world’s lowest self confidence. Either way, I couldn’t tell if you liked me or were mocking me and I couldn’t even stand still without looking out of place.

Standing in the library stacks that day, looking for a book on something-or-other I could feel you near me. Your presence had a weight to it, as if you were making my eyes water or leaving a tightness around my throat. I looked behind me but you weren’t there.

I couldn’t say I was scared of you, but I think I was scared of the way I would be if you gave me the attention I really wanted. You were so sure of yourself and I was so much the opposite that I knew you would consume me. I would do anything for you. I practically did.

All it took was the feeling of an almost touch. Your hand resting on the shelf just past my head and an inch or two from mine. My voice caught in my lungs and tangled up with my breath. I stared at you while you asked me what I was looking for.

I said something stupid that didn’t make sense and the look you gave me made me visibly shiver. Those stone blue eyes and lips like cherries weakened me. I was just a lovesick girl with a crush that couldn’t be quenched but for a long swim against your kiss. But I felt like I was drowning.

Can other people see when your eyes dart too and fro? I tried to steady them and felt the heaviness of my silence.

“You know people get caught making out back here, right?” Why would you tell me that? It was so forward. Was it a joke? Was it your Uber confidence exerting it’s will on me?

“I uh, haven’t kissed anyone in a while. Definitely not the library.” Awkward. So-fucking-awkward.

“Oh, no. I wasn’t accusing you of being one of them,” you laughed, “just commenting on what a risqué place the library could be. Could you be quiet enough to, well, see how far you could go.”

I turned to look at you, pulling my hands back and clutching my arms to my chest. My body recoiling while my muscles tense.

“I, yeah no. I didn’t mean it like that just-, I don’t know why I said that.”

I wanted to kiss him and let him do whatever he wanted to me. Try to make me scream while I tried to hold it in. Pushing me so far he knows I’m going to break and he shoves his fingers in my mouth to keep me quiet. Moaning and sucking at his skin while he lays claim to my lust.

“That’s okay. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just saw you here and wanted to…say.”

“Say what, that thing about kissing?” I cocked my head and pursed my lips tight. My fingers rolled my shirts fabric between them nervously.

You laughed again, “yeah uh, I guess. Who knows why we say some things, huh?”

“We usually say things because we want them,” I muttered and kept my eyes just out of the center of yours. You looked at me with raised eyebrows.

“Is that what you think?” You smirked.

I half nodded and half shrugged.

“Well,” you moved your hand from the shelf to your side, then hovering around my waist as you slid past me, “you may be right. Maybe we’ll find out someday.”

With that you moved past me, your hand on my elbow sending a jolt through me that I’m sure you felt. I wanted to reach out and grab you. I wanted to rip at your shirt and run my fingers through your hair. I felt my entire body contracting inward ready to violently release.

As you moved down the stacks I called out, but it was more a sound than a word. You stopped and turned to look at me, staring.

“Can we, um, do this again? Sometime?”

You nodded, “uh huh. Let’s leave it to chance. I do better with spontaneity, and you’re cute when you’re nervous.”

You left me with those words. It was the start of whatever it was that we were. When I finally exhaled I couldn’t stop my chest from heaving, as if I had run a marathon. I was shaking and needed to sit down. I almost felt like crying and the only thing I could think about was when I could be near him again.

You oughta know

I’m hiding inside the minutes of your day.

In your head.

Can you feel my breath?

I’m lingering in your closet when you’ve gone

Boxers and buttoned-downs

I miss the feel of your clothes in my fist

I’m tip-toeing through your kitchen 

No shoes

No pants, no panties, just one of your shirts

I’ve defiled the sheets that you sleep in

Stained their virgin thread count

Will you be mad?

I’ve sprawled along your couch

I’ve sat bare in your kitchen

I’ve laid lustful in your bed

I’ve left my scent in every room of your home

Now tell me, am I on the tip of your tongue?

OMFG

You give me confidence that isn’t always there.  I can walk through the weeds and thorns without a twitch of my lip or yelp from my throat.  

It’s as if the blood dripping down my arm is more of a perk then a penalty.  If I held my finger to your lips would you take it in your mouth?

My neck has felt bruises before, but none ever so sweet.

The coloring as I look in the mirror takes my breath away again, but in the same way as you did just last night and I can’t help but clench my legs together imagining your hand still there.

Whisper again what you did in my ear.

“Drip like honey for me, my Queen, and I will worship you through my stings.”

Oh my god, I can feel you still.

Oh my god, I need you right now.

Oh my fucking god.

Euphoria

Your lips are still stinging in mine. I feel where your teeth grazed and bit at my wild kisses. The heavy breathed moans that crept out slowly kept me entranced.

And your tongue? My *god* your tongue.

That tongue was rough but moved so smoothly I felt as if I were swimming. I wanted to lick the inside of your mouth while holding you down with my weight on your chest. I’m not sure it would have worked, physically, but mentally I was devouring you.

Every time you kiss me, do it just like that. With your hand on the back of my neck holding me tight to you while your other travels down my sides and pulls my hips to yours. You made me feel safe and wanted, no desired. I finally wanted something again and the flush of my skin radiated out of me.

I need more. I’m going to succumb to your addiction. I want more. I’m going to overdose and leave this world with a smile.

Waking up but I don’t want to open my eyes. There’s something about the way the sheets wrap around my body that makes me miss being enveloped by another’s arms. Make me feel completely wrapped up, as if your entire being surrounds me.

Cinch the sheets tighter around me. Wrap me tight. No, tighter. There you go, baby.

I want a boa constrictor. I want to feel a squeeze. Put your hand on my throat and give me everything you’ve got.

Red cape. Red hair.

Kiss me, but close your hand around my neck.

Fuck me, but cradle me in your arms.

Praise me, but with your fist in my hair.

Use me, but don’t waste a single drop.

If you’re going to hurt me, love me.

If you’re going to call me darling, seethe the words into my ear.

Nobody ever answers, so I threw away my phone

I’m missing a ghost’s touch and I don’t know what to do.  That feeling of the spirit’s finger grazing down my thigh.  The shiver it induces.  I can feel it, almost.  It’s right there.  The presence is so heavy but when I reach out to grab it there’s nothing.  It’s gone.  It wasn’t there and I’m going crazy.

I miss something I never had.  Someone who took the time to know how to touch me.  Not like they touched someone else but how they spent the time devoted to me and the way I move.   The reactions I gave when their hand was placed in various crevices.  The sounds that were pulled from my throat when they squeezed.

I’m unique, just like everyone else.

I need it.  I want it.  I have to have it.  I know what it feels like but I’ve never experienced it.  I know how it happens but I’ve never gone through the motions.

The ghost finds me every night and hovers above me.  It tortures me with what I want and uses my hands to the devil’s glee.  But I can never feel it’s touch.  I don’t hear it’s breath.  It’s here but not with me and I’m the one left in purgatory.