I want to lay her down and have my way with her, if she’d
let me, or is it always the other way around, she chooses who gets to get
inside her while we wait in line to see if we deserve her, lucky enough to grab
the brass ring on this merry-go-round of life.
I ride her like a horse when she prefers to be a unicorn,
that special aspect, singular difference stuck up between her legs, while my
tongue does its magic.
I love the way it looks after the deed is done, the dangling
drips on her dark body, like white pieces of fruit, dangling, as I admire my
handywork, telling myself “I’m the one who did that,” the one who she let in,
and I wonder if I beg her enough she might let me do it again, and more often,
let me move around inside of her, this way and that, to make her scream, that
magic moment.
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