Oh god, you were like a roller coaster, and I hate roller coasters.
I peed myself on one once, and they all laughed at me and I smiled.
It was warm and the day was cold and I never bothered changing, cause shit like that don’t matter.
I’ve always loved peeing.
I love holding it in and waiting, waiting, waiting.
Sometimes I almost forget how to speak or how to type on a keyboard cause my mind is concentrating on how to keep my legs closed tight enough to not squirt out that liquid honey.
I wasn’t always like this.
Nah, I’m lying.
I’ve always been like this.
It’s all the critical minds that made me feel dirty about it.
I mean, how do you tell your man to pee on you? There’s a steady cadence to such things.
That is not an invitation to do it whenever either.
Mostly, I pee in the shower.
Preferably in the winter, but anytime will do.
I like it aimed at the small of my back & down my ass, plunging through the crevices of my legs casting its last shadow on my feet. The shudder of my lover follows. Me, with wet hair and cushy lips anticipating his airplane mouth rummaging through the cascade of my open mountain tongue.
He’s every wanderlust tendency I’ve ever thought of.
Every pair of boot I’ve ever used and every Wagner composition.
He’s my most precious childhood fantasy, and I’m every nectarine he’s ever bitten down on.
Usually, we ask each other tired questions after devastatingly personal events.
Like him choking and slapping me while he rams his cock inside me one minute merits him asking me when I first tasted a mango.
How old were you when you realized you’d die?
How many times have you been in love?
What’s your favorite crayon?
Why does death make you angry?
When did you fall in love with me?
Your flesh is so hot and pliant, I couldn’t fathom it being cold and hard.
I love you.