Skin. There is something about skin that intoxicates me. Tan or pale, each color has its own depth, its own appeal to the eyes, the right light to make it just - utterly perfect.

The softness of it is most important. The contrast that exists under my fingertips, the differences between my courseness, your softness. I imagine the playground I can make out of your belly, like swimming in an ocean of cream, thick and warm. Wanting to rub my face over it, inhale it, sink into it for hours, days….weeks. Swallow it, taste it across my tongue, drink it down in a haze of rapture compelled only by the desire to know more of it, to know it better.

Dig my fingers into your flesh, into the tissue, not to mark, but in a seduction, a dance that only ends when you cry for reasons other than pain. It is a kiss, my kiss, the one time where I make myself equally available to you, where I don’t stand in dominance over you, but with you, controlled, perhaps, by something greater than us both.

I crave. Let me swim.