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.