I dwell in embodied desires. I’m a sensualist. I enjoy feeling things – feelings and things. Feeling on things, like you, for example. I like the texture of you and that dangling participle between your thighs.
I like the way you feel when you’re fury, a wild beast; and the way you feel when you’ve trimmed it for me. I wonder how you’d feel if you waxed for me.
I could get lost in thought all day about the different things we could feel together. Right now I’m ember, but together, baby, we could blaze & run free like a wild fire. The most destructive kind – the kind that’s not afraid to die.
I touch you to understand you. Feel my fingers gliding over your skin – your chest, where its hairy; your back, where there’s raised scars. How does it feel to you? How do I feel on you? Do you understand the desire that my hands aim to convey?
I touch you to leave little tales of me on you. My hands, naked without my pen, move over you as though your back is a blank page for calligraphy where I chart the reasons, all the reasons, for you to love me, for you to want me, for you to stay.
Does my touch make you want to stay?
It’s more than just sex for me. It’s about becoming alive with erotic energy. I touch you to memorize you. And I hope the marks on your body, the softness from the oils, the scent in the room, the songs I’ve selected, I hope everything about tonight plants itself firmly in your mind and you memorize me too.