and he reclines on the couch and, while not technically interrupting my story, totally interrupts my story by pulling down his pants to show me that he’s ready to go.

to my memory, i’ve never been so in love with a man’s cock, and it’s just getting fucking ridiculous.

i stumble over a few more words of the story and then lose them completely due to the gravitational effect this visual has on me.

as if my mouth were the ocean waters at high tide, his cock the moon in its closest orbit.

my words are replaced by its perfectly-formed head. how my lips pleasure in rounding over its fleshy cusp, how my tongue delights in drawing itself along the subtle protrusion that runs the length of its underside.

gorgeous fucking porn star cock, this is my ode to you. this is me, kneeling at your alter. may the goodness of this act echo a thousandfold into time without end.

it’s become painfully obvious that i’m delirious; i really do realize this.

only i couldn’t care less.

should i?

and if i do, then does that mean that i would also have to question how easily he enters me?

i don’t mean because of a crotchless something-or-other.

what i mean is, why am i always so instantly dripping wet?

in the months before i met him, the rising tides had all but forsaken me. totally unlike my pleasure body, but i accepted it as atonement, figuring that bad sex will apparently do that to a good woman. figuring it was time to do penance where penance was due.

i never told him that. never told him that his introduction into my life marked the end of a dearth, a reconciliation between my heart and my giving body.

but fuck, what joy when the rains returned.

so of course i’m delirious. what woman wouldn’t be, in the face of such abundance?

really, if you felt this way, would you dare to hamper it?

lust! lust! invite freud in!

that’s what i thought.

come on, then, freud.

the doors to my id are spread as wide as my legs.