My Own Hunger


Dear God/dess, I want SEX!

I want to be touched by a man, and have his large flat hands run over me, and cup my face, and taste me every place! I want my body played like an instrument of desire.  I want to wrap my arms around him in ancient ritual, breathing as one beast, offering and consuming and being consumed.  

This hunger drives me mad some days. 

I am frustrated and angry and lost.

I don’t know where to find someone to let loose with, to run wild under the moon, to drink in sensuality and spill it back across each other’s bodies in tendrils and whisps and yes, maybe even whips.  Succubus to his Incubus.  Dreams, images of The Wild Hunt obsess me, command me, but I have  no Fae King to join me on my headlong flight.  Rather, like a caged beast, I pace inwardly, and fret.

Not him.  Never him.  In the cold light of reason, of day, of winter’s chill, there is nothing for me in this interaction.  He is empty, a pleasing container housing his putrid remains. 

And I bought it. 

I paid dearly for it.

I need cleansed beneath a full moon, sweating him from my soul, releasing my own passions entombed too long.  Scent of roses and grass and sweat.  Heavy with need and another’s body.  Spread wide and spreading, forcing, yielding, teasing, succumbing, rising upwards and downwards into mindlessness.

Summer comes.  Night winds call.  My dancing ground is nearly complete.

I want Sacred Sensual Satisfying SEX.

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