If I touch you there, will you touch me here?
Can I make you scream? Will you do as much for me?
We press this to get that; We ease in and out to make fire,
the sound of it roaring in my head, your fingers curling around this stick to
make it stiff, rubbing faster and harder until I ache for more than just the
stroke of it against your palms, and need to reach deep into those place where
you might share it, too.
That’s the rub of it, the perplexity of desire, the
not-quite-enough syndrome all this leads to until finally leads where it must,
the in and out, the up and down, the touch and being touched, the rubbing soft
things until they grow too hard to resist. If I touch you, will you, too?
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