Friday, January 28, 2005

"You're so prob'ly think this blog is about you"

You are killing me.

Lately I find myself thinking about you while I am shaving, or ironing my shirt, or changing the filter in the coffeemaker. Anytime my mind is clear you wander in, like the cool breeze that finds its way through my window screen just after sundown on a June evening.

I get nervous tingles when I see your picture and watch you stare back at me. Your eyes are happy and shiny and sexy and alive. You have the giddy smile of a young girl who hasn't yet plucked her first grey hair or stressed out over a baby's rash. It's a smile that makes me want to put my mouth over yours and feel the heat of your lips against mine.

I want to kiss you. I want you to let out a breathy moan as your tongue slithers wetly against mine and your hands wander through my hair, your nails grazing my scalp.

I want to smell your perfume. And your hair. And your entire body, right after you climb out of the bathtub and dab the water off with a fluffy towel.

I want to taste you. I want to run my tongue over your bellybutton and the valley between your tits. I want to suck your bottom lip and bite your nipples and lick the hollow place just underneath your ear.

I want to stand back and look at your naked body as you smile at me and unabashedly show me everything God gave you.

I want to tease you. I want to eat your pussy until you throb with anticipation, and then I want you to look seductively up at me as you run your tongue along the spot where cock meets balls. Because teasing is what we do, isn't it?

We are big flirts, you and I. We make suggestive comments, and act as though we don't even realize it. But we are choosing our words carefully, aren't we? Our fingers float agonizingly above the keys, don't they, as we decide on just the right words, the words that will achieve the desired effect. And there IS a desired effect, isn't there, my dear?

We talk about sex. We talk about penises and vaginas and asses and breasts. We talk about who we have fucked, and who we would like to fuck, and who we would NEVER fuck. Things get a little warm sometimes, and it's all I can do not to abandon my keyboard and lay myself down on the couch, grabbing hold of my cock and stroking myself straight to Heaven, all the time envisioning your sweet smile.

It's just flirting.

Isn't it?

It's hard flirting with someone you can't touch, especially for people who like sex as much as we do. The buildup, the anticipation, always has a sour tinge to it when I remember that we can't end our little chats by attacking each other. That disappoints you, too, doesn't it?

You want it, too. Admit it. Your fingers find their way between your legs when we talk, don't they? You get wet when the conversation turns dirty, don't you? It lubricates you to think about me filling you with my stiff rod. Doesn't it?

You think about us fucking each other's brains out. You think about us foreplaying and fucking and afterplaying and fucking again. The idea occurs to you randomly throughout the day, just like it does to me. You burn with lust, like I do, but if you're like me, you've kept most of the salacious details to yourself. It seems so much dirtier that way.

You've got it just as bad as I do. Someday, we'll meet in person. And when we finally occupy the same room, we'll shake hands cordially, and as my skin touches yours for the first time, we'll exchange a knowing look. After that, I bet we don't hold out an hour.