i must be ovulating.

here i am, at crunch time, up against a wall, staring down the barrel of a gun.
and all i can think about is you.

well not you, exactly.
or...
well yes, it is you in these daydreams. you're there and you're lovely as ever, but what i'm thinking about is not so much about you as fucking you.

about the way you feel and the way you taste, and how you like to taste me.

about the force of your thrusts, and the way i have to brace myself just so

or risk acquiring another storied bruise.

and while i think these thoughts of you, and those things we do, my fingers take your place.

i return to the grind, the faintest scent hovering as i type.

the way your hand rested on my hip was exactly right; firm, with intent. assured. 

that turned me on. 

then your lips were on mine for just a moment. soft and fuller than expected, tasting of whiskey and nicotine, leaving me wanting. there was promise in that kiss, a hint of magic. not of tomorrows or yesterdays or confusing in-betweens, just of passion and the fire it brings.

i wanted more of those kisses. i wanted to hold you down and nibble those perfect lips. to lick and suck, touch and...

i still want you, but time and distance had their way and now is not to be. tomorrow is unknown and full of possibilities. i think this as i fall asleep to thoughts of you and your distant lips, and your hand on my hip. as mine travels to where yours should be.

such sweet fucking dreams.

we met, finally. well kind of anyway...

in my dream last night you had a starring role and boy, you played the hell out of it. artistically closer to the work of seymore butts, than philip seymour hoffman, but i'd give you an award.

any award you want. 

you can have them all.