Sometimes I need a brute with a whiskied tongue who jams his fingers, leaves all of his rings on, wants me to say how much I love it.  Tell me.  Tell me. Your lack of love is fine. We are adults here. I am so hard. I moan. No cuts yet. I want him to break the spell. I force my liquids out when I cannot budge his hand.  I  say  I'm  sorry to  the  new moon,  and  wish my  mother told me that for the ones you love, tell them to never fall in love with you. He will think of me all night. Five messages in the morning. No ring of doubt.  No  sweet  asks  left,  no  sweet  nothings.  All  assumptions  now spelled  in a  hopeful  O. &Soon.  Soon  tomorrow  or  the  next day.  Maybe the next day after  that.  The  hint of  "you  are  mine" hangs.  My breasts ache. His sweating heart is a pickled slug in my mouth. His cock, a wand wishing to open. But how it fills me, and fills me, and fills me again, knocks my head against the cold wall, clamps my arms and my legs into a bind.  I am so hard. I will tell him, yes, and soon, still walk altered raw. I am a biparted person, turning the pillows for my own scent when he has gone. jjjj