When I Say I Want to Make Love

When I Say I Want to Make Love

I don't mean candles on the bedside table and Boyz 2 Men on the iTunes.
I don't mean slow passionate thrusts and eyes locked in stasis,
slowed breathing, deep breathing, fingers running through your hair,
gentle kisses on your face and shoulders and hands.

I mean that the next time I stop by and you greet me with that unsure smile
I mean to grab you and pick you up and kiss and bite your neck
while I slide my hands down your back and cup your ass.
I want to open your legs and wrap them around my hips.

I want to feel you lock your ankles and clench my body tight.
I want to feel you grind against me as you try and fail to kiss my mouth
because I'm too busy nibbling your ear and kissing you just behind it.
I want to kiss your jaw and bite your chin and only then kiss your mouth.

I want to hold you with my left hand while the right hand grabs your hair,
turns your head, holds you back, and finally brings you to me.
I want my tongue to beat yours in a thumb war while I unhook your bra.
I want to test my luck and spatial awareness as I carry you to your room.

I want to fumble for the doorknob as you draw blood biting my bottom lip.
I don't want an apology when you knock my glasses off my face.
I want to kick the door closed behind me and dump you on the bed.
You sit up to meet me at the lips, but I'm already kneeling and I shove you back.

I go to work on your belt and jeans while I tongue your belly down to the panty line.
I slide your jeans down to your ankles where your boots are still laced tight.
I kiss my way back up your shin, your knee, your thigh, your hip.
I pull your panties up until the only thing they cover is your clit.

They are white and cotton and floral-printed, not the sort you'd wear if you expected this.
I want to know what shade of pink you are, but first I have to taste your groin.
I lift your legs and drag my tongue from the base of your ass to the crest of your hipbone.
I compare that taste to the inside of your thigh while you grab my hair.

I nibble at your ass and pull your panties to the side and stick my tongue in.
Your pubic hair is soft and fluffy, not as coarse as mine. I drag my tongue up your labia
and suck on your clit while I work a finger in and then another. I kick my fingers up and down, open you up, then make them as a flipper and kick up and down. You squeeze.

I switch hands and catch my breath as you tear at my hair and I undo my belt
and you moan, "Come on." And you plead "Come on." And you beg, "Come on."
When you hear my buckle jingle free you summon your strength and win the tug of war.
I slide my hand up your shirt and graze your nipple and grab your throat and kiss you.

You're so excited you nearly bite my teeth. You snap. You grind on my still-covered cock.
You whimper that it's still stuck behind my underwear. You rock your hips side to side.
No effect. You reach down and spring me with a dry hand you pull me by the cock
and guide me inside you. You squeeze hard and I have to pull out.

I try to catch my breath, but you're impertinent. You smack me across the face.
Again. Harder. My neck cracks. My cheek goes warm and I tongue where my teeth cut.
I grind the head on you while I bide my time and cool down. You'd like to strike,
but I have your hands pinned to the bed while our pubes trade licks and blows.

I don't think of roadkill or the sulfur smell of sewage to keep from cumming,
I think of how long I've waited, how desperate I am to not waste this.
Once my cock agrees I thrust, you thrash, I rise to my knees, your ankles pinned behind
And I feel the scrape of my zipper with every advance and retreat.

I try to stay on. I aim at different angles. Each thrust is scorch and quench. I have to stay hard.
I escape your legs and you sense the trouble. This time it's you who shoves me down.
Your mouth on my cock as you go at my boots blind. I sigh. Your tongue is thick and your teeth held back, right hand on the shaft. My boots are off. I tackle you into the closet.

My mouth back on your cunt as I untie your boots, as I jerk them off, as I get your legs free.
I rise to my knees and you rise to yours and we embrace as Catholics at bottomless prayer.
Then the push, then the turn, then you on all fours and me back inside from behind.
You rock. You sway. You take me all the way in. I tug your shirt up and over your head.

Your bra still hangs from your shoulders as I kneed knots from your back as I bend
forward to bite beads of sweat from your back. Your breathing is heavier and your hair
is darker. I feel sweat springing from my chest, from my forehead. A drop pools at the tip
of my nose and splatters and mixes with the Morse Code of moisture on your back.

I slide a hand, then two, under your panties and press your hips in my hands like dough.
I move the panties to the left and thumb your asshole with my right while my left works
its way to your clit. You sigh. You yelp. You bury your head into a jacket you haven't worn
in three weeks back when the streets were covered with ice and Crimea hadn't been annexed.

You arch your back and rock it forward. I'm not thrusting fast enough for you, so you slam
back into me until I catch up. Your breath escapes you, you bow your head to look for it
in the mess of socks of books of unfinished manuscripts and scratched-out sketches.
You reach back and try to grab my ass. I slow down and press deeper and feel you convulse

down to the floor. I grab your ankle and flip you over. I pick you up and drop you back on the bed.
You lie there a moment and wonder what the hell I'm doing standing here, cock drenched
and on display through the curtain of my shirt. What I'm doing is thinking how wonderful
it is that you've still managed to keep your bra on. It lays limp across your collarbones.

I scoop you from the bed as before and kiss your exhausted face. You lift an impossible leg
and I hook an arm to hold you there. Your eyes plead with me to finish. I spin and kiss
and take a set on the bed, re-entering you for the last time tonight. I kiss the side of your face
where your hair is glued down by sweat. You roll on like a belly dancer while I plant my feet.

I cherish your face as I lean back. I let a hand linger on your cheek while I find the angle.
I cherish your neck as I grip it and pull you down into an embrace. We're sticky with sweat
as you rock and I thrust. I grab you once more around the waist and press my head to yours
as my moans rise and my mind goes blank and all that is left is the warmth of you.

I wake in the morning hear you in the shower and curse myself for being late to work.
When I stand to look for my clothes, I find my glasses safe on the bedside table
Under them is a note telling me to remember to pick up the Plan-B.
When I say I want to make love to you, this is what I mean.