Perhaps I simply have too much time on my hands. Maybe I think too hard, read too many books or listen to too many stories about love, loss, and our courageous attempts to get it back again. Maybe I'm wrong, afterall, I present mostly theory, no hardcore evidence. What if, instead of that one night of passion, I insist on a lifetime of love?
Passion, is to me, is the sweetest nectar. It brings joy and life to every cell in my body. Physical connection to a man? Well, there's just no other experience more delicious than feeling the power, instensity, and moisture of a man as he rocks me through his physical journey. His journey propels me out of the universe, rocks me through waves of ectasy, and soothes me through each pain, every worry, and all the tender spots that I left un-attended. Oh yes, I have had nights, a few, I must admit, when the man that held me, stroked me, found me, tore me apart, and put me back together again had me shaking, trembling, and cleaving his every limb...hoping that we never disconnect. I lingered on every touch, sensation, and the pure bliss of the electricity pulsating through each part of our organism.
And when the vortex subsided and my moisture becomes a dew,
I rest.
When I awaken, I am strong, I am vibrant, I am full of life.
I am alone.
So what did I really want?
To be fucked?
Or to be loved?
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