I need you to need me. I’d love you to love me. I’m begging you to beg me.
I wanted to say something deep about love, because I’ve been reading stuff about it in the blogs I haunt and, hey, I wanted to join in, but I feel like it’s all been said more clearly, more poetically, more philosophically and even more cynically than I can say it. I’ve tried to think of some new twist I can use to pin a definition once and for all on this crazy thing we call love, but none come to mind. Or maybe I just don’t care. Nah, that can’t be it. We’re all looking for love, aren’t we? Certainly they are in books and movies, and finding it, too, although it don’t always come easy, even for the ruggedly handsome and the terminally pretty.
So maybe I do care. You know, about love. Just not about defining love. It’s a powerful force, I won’t argue, but when you get all over it and try to explain it, maybe it’s possible to break it, or spoil it or something. If you could define it, maybe the familiarity would breed contempt. Wouldn’t want that. Anyway, I’m not an expert, but I think I know how it feels, and that’s good enough for me.
Not an expert? Get a load of this: It turns out that the greatest love of my life didn’t know I had the hots for her for three years. How stupid was I? What the hell was I thinking? Did I expect her to send me an engraved invitation?
at your earliest convenience,
to slide your hands under my waistband in the back,
to caress my butt and reach down slowly
along the crack of my ass
until you can feel the wet between my legs.
A reception will be held between those legs
immediately following the deep soul-kissing,
the hot breath on my neck,
the biting of my nipples,
the licking of my belly
and the sensuous, deep tonguing of my pussy.
Festivities will include
laughing and crying.