My wants are dangerous things; they make me crazy, make me stupid. I want you. I can't help myself, although I should know better. You are everything I swore I'd never want again. There is nothing between us: no bond, no connection, nothing real. But somehow the thought of having you keeps me up at night. I fantasize about your lips, your tongue, your fingers. Stroking, flicking, delving deep. I want you to touch me, taste me, make me feel. You scare me. Your body, yes, but wanting you scares me even more. One moment is all we've had; a moment that was all about you and even that I'm starting to crave. It isn't about emotions because there is nothing between us; words like chemistry and cosmic pull are inadequate to describe what I feel when I lose the battle and my thoughts drift to you. I need you to fantasize about my lips, my tongue, my fingers. Caressing, licking, squeezing. But more than that I want to know that you want me; that you want me to touch you, taste you, make you feel. It's stupid, I know. You don't owe me anything. Trust me I know. It doesn't change what I want. The toys don't help. They're a poor substitute and make me wish for their human reality. I keep reminding myself that there are reasons I'm trying to wait; ones that are real and valid. And yet even knowing about the inevitable pain that is forever a part of every intimate experience is no longer enough to keep me from wanting. I don't want to want you because wanting you is dangerous. I want to be done because I'm tired of being sleepless.

© Briar Rose

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