A tall tale with some truths…
This public service messaging is brought to you by one single woman in need of some things you might be able to infer.
I’ve met with the Prince of Persuasion on more than a one night stand. I always want to push his panting deep into me. He’d stolen my heart and sold it on the black market for a new kidney in hopes to salvage his own thick-headed skin’s whiskey habit. His lust was more intoxicating than any amount of liquor he’d ever put down in front of me.
His eyes are piercing, yet full of wonderment. He knows how to talk to me, as well he’d suggestively lead me on with conversations of ideology and conviction. For him, I’d wear my tight-fitting leggings and cowboy boots. They make me feel steamy and kissable. Sometimes he would come to me and other times I switched all sorts of plans to make it to him.
My sexual dexterity was always his Achilles heel. He was bound to want my body, but in turn, could care less about making himself mine. He rarely thought to inform me about the leading lady in his life. There have been years I pined over interrupted reconciliations dotting my history, only to wind up alone still.
The best love stories are as smooth as a Bailey’s with whipped cream in the dead of winter. Though I’ll never forget stolen nights with the Prince of Persuasion, I long for days I can linger with a man wanting me for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert.
It’s been ages since I’ve been Cinnabon-envious hot and sticky with a sexy male being. To relax in my britches, there are moments I may be found wallowing with words in lieu of my preferred saliva swapping starter course. Language is one of my lovers. She’s actually transgender, having both masculine and feminine qualities. She’s racy and spacy all at once. The libido of my inner dialogue is highly provocative. I enjoy the subtle play and pounce eagerly with any acutely intellectual opportunist digging the banter.
Loving through words has spared some of the heartaches many a moon rise for me. Mostly submissive in the bedroom, I tend to be dominantly faithful when it comes to breathless embraces with dicks and diction. Figuring out my passions over adjectives, alliteration, and analogies keep me adventurous when there’s no good flesh to press or commitments to conjure.
writing about love
is like dancing about accounting
your pronounced patience
waiting on my scarlet rain to pass
a pure dedication
immersed in trust
contemplating my healing playroom
my punishment is taking shape
unexpected ghosts will haunt
but this breathless victory
poured into abundance
a flurry of coffee mounds
and a pepper garden
slaves to a mutual fever
we are dolphins
there is a value in fire
the decent thing to do
after taunting nipples
is to nestle in the slits
waiting until the stirring is enough
and the eyelashes stroke you
then the chrysalis is reborn
my love for you
in these moments
It’s a joy for me to occasionally be profoundly impure enough that I’m causing vaginas to moisten with such wee bit of vulgarity. It’s honestly only about teasing love, which should be celebrated, masturbated, massaged, hugged, dined, wined (if that’s your poison), and inflamed like the loins of a Goddess in heat. I’m also hamming it up for temperament’s sake.
In the end and the beginning, there is nothing but love that I maturely mean. If you’d rather focus on the dusty ashes or balk at the bawdy bits then I already know we’re never gonna stay up all night making popcorn with real melted butter, naked on a couch together, until the sun rises over the ocean bay before our morning swim. And that’s OK. Your pick.
Now that we found love what are we gonna do with it?
Prince Charmings eat your hearts out!