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PHILIP B

I have hunger, fervour for the touch, the glancing brush, the soothing stroke, the finessed caress, craving the touch of a lover I never had.​

A frisk. A fondle. A finger. To feel and be felt.

For a lover, I have never smelt. Been dealt. Had.

To be loved, to be missed, to be kissed, to be thought about, to be looked forward to.

I want to be held, squeezed so tight. So tight, I feel like I am broken.

So the physical matches the emotional. Having you run your hard hands down my arms. Touching the inside of my wrist.

Then fingers interlaced. Having you hold my neck. Your breath on my face. Our tongues grapple in tacky lust.

Having you grab my waist, so I brace for what’s coming.

That movement of fingers, expanding to palm, slowly, gently; tingling from knee to shining sea, along my inner thigh. I would die if I could not have you. Inside of me.

You grab my arse, hold me up, graze my breasts, a wanted grope, and with them sensitive to touch, nom nom on my nipples.

Pulse and heartbeat quicken. Blood pressure rises. Glands lubricate. Things swell.

A meaty desire.

Tension. Trouser pressure. But a tease. You are not ready.

Circling, slowly, your finger around my lips. I taste myself.

There is a fine line between pleasure and pain. To be loved, to be missed, to be kissed, to be thought about, to be looked forward to.

A subcutaneous craze for a brush, a rub, a blow, a taste of a lover.

A lover I have never had.

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