Sex With You.

You tell me that you masturbated last night after you left me.
I believed it, because I could see you hiding your face through our text messaging.

 

I could have looked at it as you teasing me, but it made me think about the power of touching. You placed your hands into
your pants and allowed yourself that moment of temporary vulnerability. You were safe in your own mind.

 

I am sure that you had made yourself come and I wanted to ask you to be sure, because I was envious of the
power that the mind had over you, I need to know its secret.

 

But I kept that question to myself because I have learned of your discomfort with my inquisitive nature, and it would also expose
my plan to take that power and use it for what you’d think was against you.

 

It’d probably take me licking your special place 1000 times, or using my fingers to stimulate the soft spot between your legs until the day came and gone like life tends to, just so I can place your trust on a bed of roses, and get you to open up to me without culpability.

 

Early morning I wake up with your smell on my hands, your taste in my mouth, and your strenuousness nature on my mind.
First you turn me on and then you turn me down, turn to me and tell me to touch you and then turn me away when

 

I ask you “what’s on your mind?” and you respond with “nothing”..you kiss me for so long that my mind turns mushy, you sit on top of me and bite my bottom lip, looks like you have won this battle once again, you know exactly what this does to me.

 

Sex has become the language that we speak, the dialog that we share. You take it away and I feel silenced, causing me to lash out for my freedom. You tell me that that’s okay, that you accept me. I stare on and tell myself that it was dysfunction,
And that was what you accepted, much like a child who loved their molester unconditionally. You give it to me and I get enthralled with the opportunity, surely this time it means you want me, you fuck me because you love me, you moan because

 

you’re ready to tell me your secrets, you say my name because it’s the only name you want to think of, I get close to coming just thinking of all of the possibilities, maybe this time I am right, maybe next time I’ll get to see it. Maybe.

 

I route my eyes to match yours, and find you looking at me first, but then you immediately look away. That tells me more than I’d like to know, because it reads like words spoken from someone with Tourettes Syndrome, short and unbecoming.

 

I ignore it because I know for sure that I am misreading you, just like you want me to. But one day I will get you, and when I do…

 

You will come from my fingers, my voice, and my love only.

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