It’s a date. It’s not a date. You’ve known them for seven years. You just met them five minutes ago. You met on Tinder. In a coffee shop. At school. In the library. In line at CVS.
You’re unsure she wants what you want.
You’re single. Taken. Married. Divorced. An ethical non-monogamist. Woman. Man. Trans. All the various spectrums in between.
You want to wrap your arms around her, feel the soft flesh connect with your own.
Her lips-plump, skinny, fat, soft, moist- are all you can stare at, and you fantasize the feeling of them setting fire to your own.
Her hand, strong but feminine, sits empty and you imagine your fingers grasping it tight.
Your fingers long to graze or stroke the plane of her body, mapping muscles and flesh.
Her voice trembles, shakes, or seems unsure. She says nothing at all. She speaks with authority.
You want to touch her right there _________. Her body screams say ‘yes’, but her actions and eyes yell ‘no’. She smiles, seems relaxed. Or she moves your hand without a word.
The aroma of her perfume clouds your head in desire, and you feel stirred.
Her skin is butter soft, and your fingertips long to explore every inch. Slowly. With ferocity. Delicate. Sweet. Starved.
You want her to touch right here _______. She keeps moving your hand away from where you want to place her. She moves her hand or mouth there by telepathy. Or she just holds your hand.
She wears fishnets and you want to draw the circles on her thighs with your hand. She wears jeans and you want to trace the seam of her calf with your fingertip. She wears shorts and you want to rub the crest of her knees. She wears nothing at all, and you want your hands everywhere.
You are 99.9% sure she wants what you want.
Reflections of a woman spawned in a cement cocoon...