Sunday, November 04, 2007

I want it when

I want when you look at me as I walk up to you. It is not desperation, but in your expression is desire and admiring.

When I ache for you as you kiss me down my naked side while I am pressed, stomach down, on the bed. My skin is in pain it is so sensitive to your kisses. I almost want to cry. I quiver to get away. But I push harder up through love and need of you.

I want the grins. The jokes. The gentle moments. The hand holding and stroking. The leaning against you as we chill in chat. I have deleted sms’s, emails, written memories, as you are not kept through such communication.

I want it to be that when you insistently press your clothed self into me, I know my satisfaction is actually what you are wanting most to achieve. I love that you are so beautiful, so desirable, and yet, it is me that changes your world through me simply being with you.

I love how you glance around, realising our passion is so obvious to others, and you stop to consider, but you turn all your attention back to me because I am of the only importance to you. That we shy people away from us, as they find themselves unable to want to break our moment. And that they smile quietly to themselves.

That as we step out onto the street, you say to me that I am so cute, and I protest as I hate the word “cute” and you explain back just how it is an ultimate compliment from you, to me. I still need those buttons back, from that skirt you ripped open in haste. But I prefer the memory.

I love how you asked me to lie on your back, as you enjoy the gentle pressure. My smaller female body trying to envelop your male one. You asked if I was not returning in a few hours, even after spending our first 18 hours of knowing each other not willing to let one another be more than a hand’s width away. Or how you kissed me on your kitchen counter at a midnight when I was seeking out water, wrapped only in a hastily-thrown-aside blanket.

I want to be more than pleasure to a man. I feel saddened if I sense I am but an occasional night of satisfaction. I want you to cling to my hair in your passion. You to stare at me with wonder, awe, and questions as you overwhelm my body. You to say words not of appreciation, but of my beauty, that you see in a way only you could. How my best is what is speaking to you across it all.

I want to press so tightly, kiss so deeply, to tear at, lick, bite, rub against and turn about, to physically ache, and to wrap up around you so intensely, because to have you any further away might feel persecuting.

I want you to not be kissing me, but breathing into me. Mouths inches apart, intensity not allowing us to move closer or nearer. A moment I could never find words for, that I will spend the rest of my life desiring.

All of you who have made these memories are gone. Not one of you is coming back. I loved you all. And now, I would like to - I want to - love again.

Fucking is fun. To desire, feel want, and experience passion, through inexplicable crushing love, are what make me whole.


High in Dubai said...


You are on the money... Fucking is fun. The waiting in between is excruciating!

Champagne Heathen said...

Yeah but...

I don't think I got my point across in this post. I blame it on one too many glass of cheap wine while watching cheesy movies on a Sunday afternoon. It got me nostaligic, but incoherent apparently.

Anonymous said...

the light fantastic - isn't that the point - looking, waiting, experiencing the light fantastic.

Champagne Heathen said...

Numero - exactly!

Insane Insomniac said...

beautifully written.

DaveRich said...

Nice one champs! You got it right on the money! Love your work babe!!

RB said...

Fucking is fun.

Making love is supremely special and extraordinary.