Let’s have the kind of sex that makes me lose track of where my body is.
That makes me pant and moan like an animal.
Mouth. Pussy. Ass.
I want you everyfuckingwhere.
Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is dispatched – love for instance – we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.
Your fingers know the many secrets of my pleasure.
Your mouth is the key to my sultry moans.
Your cock spreading my lips is a promise
you whisper with your eyes.