Desire is Drop Dead
...gorgeous, that is. Downright, drop dead gorgeous.
People ask what part of the woman you like best, the thighs, the stomach, bust. I would have to say the desire.
Desire takes on many shades. It is the arch of the neck flung backward, the shoulders jutting out, skin stretched to physical limits. It is the intensity in her eyes, the pleading, or the quivering lip. I think I am in love with desire.
I know there is a demon of lust, but there is just something about a certain degree of selfishness that turns something inside of me on. When the woman orders you into a room, scoots back on the bed and tells you to touch here, lick there, then rub over there--now. She is not asking, it is an order. (And she will get an eager Yes Ma'am in the majority of sane cases.)
Desire has the magic to make the unattractive not only attractive, but actually glow nearly irresistibly. Desire is contagious and beautiful, and contagiously beautiful, it catches onto its surroundings, no matter how bleak or dull.
I walked down the street the other day, looking into the eyes of the random women (within reason) that I passed, picturing those eyes marinating in pleasure. I imagined wave after wave of saturating, sparkling pleasure engulfing these women, imagined their lips parted, fingers clenched. Let me tell you there were almost none that I was repulsed by.
So leave make-up and perfect hair at home. Leave that favourite scent and that sharp tongue in the closet. All you need to bring is desire, in a soft knapsack, and a cushion.
I am not advocating uncleanliness or disregard. I am saying that the you, the actual you beneath everything else, is a dream queen when she has desire tucked under her arm. All she has to do is look into his eyes and say, I want you, and feel it with everything in her. That is the match, and that is the kerosene. I can cross my heart that the results will leave you breathless.
I cannot promise sleep.