So many thoughts. They get lost in my head. Turn up at awkward moments when I’m not prepared. In the middle of a conversation, I suddenly remember my plan to tie her wrists to the chair back and make her hold herself off the seat while I press my hand against her pussy and slowly drag my palm back and forth.
Notes. Scribbles on wadded up bits of paper I find in my pockets. Stuffed into jars on the kitchen counter. Tucked away in books. They’re everywhere, these thoughts. Waiting for their moment.
A butch striptease. Fingers slow on buttons. Straddle her knees as my jeans ease down my thighs. She kisses the bulge of my cock. Lipstick rubs off on my white briefs.
Blindfold her while I jerk off on her bed.
Surprise her at home mid-day and bend her over the kitchen sink for a quick fuck with my fingers.
Tie her down and lick her with my tongue held hard and stiff. Her neck. Behind her ears. High on her chest. Shoulders. Armpits. Inner thighs. All over. Soft places and hard bone. Hover over her pussy. Breathe on her clit.
Fuck her in a crowded bar. My hand under her skirt while she sits on a barstool. I stand close beside her.
Grab her in the alley near her apartment.
Pull the straps of her slip and bra down, pinning her shoulders, exposing her tits. Shove her up against the wall. Tie her wrists together, held low at her waist. Go slow.
Take my shirt off. Undo my belt and hand it to her. Turn to face the wall.
Let me tell you something true (everything is true). There was a long time in my life when all I had were thoughts. When everything had to be written because it was the only way for it to pulse and be raw and alive. All that has changed.
Know what you want. You can’t find anything until you know what you want.
Now I walk down the street and I’m alive. She catches me staring. She sees it in me. She sees me thinking all the time. She touches me and sees me blush fast and hot. I have a constant desire that burns under my skin and surfaces so quick and with such a thick demand.
We reek of it. The sharing of this. Knowing what it is we want for ourselves. Knowing how to ask for it and get it.
“Baby,” I whisper and press myself up against her ass while we wait for a table. She squeezes my hand in hers. I bring her fingers to the thick leather of my belt. I’m thinking. I want her to feel it on her ass later. Bend her over my knee and pet her through the soft cotton of her skirt. Tap her with my belt. Lift her skirt and drag the strap across her silky little exposed panties. Tell her to pull them down. Make her show me her ass. Loop my belt and thwack. I’m picturing the red mark. The shaking flesh. I’m feeling her muscles clench across my thighs. I’m imaging what I’ll say to her. All of it.
“I think you’re dirty. I know you are. I know how you used to hide up in your bedroom and think about boys. Their stiff cocks in your grubby little fingers. Did you picture them shoving their cocks in your mouth? Could you taste it? Did you stick your own fingers in your mouth and slide them in and out to see what it might feel like?”
I’ll hold her neck. Petting her ass now. Soothing her. Dropping the belt to the floor. Leaving her bent over me, I’ll slip my fingers into her mouth. “Like this?” I ask. My words still pouring out, “Do I taste salty like those first cocks? Stale and sour? Dirty. You’re so dirty. Did you want to be held down? Did you want them to tell their friends? Want everyone to know? Did you imagine walking down the halls and seeing heads turn? Would they whisper about you? Did they?”
My hand on her ass. I know how wet she’ll be when I slide my fingers between her legs. I’ll tell her.
This. All of this in my head. All before we get our table for dinner.