I wish you were here.
With me.
Right now.
I wish you were lying beside me with your feet in my lap, telling me fun stories about what you did last week. Laughing when I tell you my own. Fetching me snacks from the kitchen when you go grab a drink for yourself.
I wish I could grind myself against you. Wrapping my legs around your waist and fucking my hips up so I can crush the slit of my crotch nice and tight against the semi-hard erection in yours. Enjoying every inch of it.
Even through two layers of denim.
Because neither of us has bothered to remove our jeans.
I wish you were here with me. With your jokes and your whimsy and your collection of thigh-high socks. Your adorable obsession with the most boring YouTube channels created by mankind.
I think about you all the time.
And I really really really wish you were here.
I wish you were on my sofa, with me lying across your bare thighs in my knickers, one bum cheek providing a handy, pervy surface on which you can roll a joint.
I wish you were here to appreciate, again, the way my sofa turns so seamlessly into a bed. I wish you were here, gently mocking me for never wanting to own a piece of furniture that doesn’t double up as at least one other thing. Wish you could roll around on my functional sofa bed.
Naked.
With me.
Teasing the entrance of my cunt with your cock – not yet quite plunging in. Pinning my hips so I can’t thrust upwards, laughing at me when I try to do that anyway. Driving me thoroughly mad with unsated need.
I wish you were here in my mouth. All taut and solid and twitching when I choke on it. I’d love to smell the clean-talc scent of your flesh as I bury my face in your stomach. Take a beat or two to breathe it in as I gag on the length of you, then come up for air spluttering and gasping. And giggling a bit too, because it’s funny how this has all become so serious all of a sudden.
I wish I could trace the curves of your hipbones with my fingertips. I wish you were here to look down at me while I did that. With your soft eyes and your warm smile and your patient, unshakeable calm.
I wish you were here, so much.
The only thing that’s better than you being here is the cosy sensation of missing you. Not worrying when you might text or whether at all. You will, or I will, it doesn’t really matter. I’m not worried that either of us is competing to be the most aloof. I’m pretty sure you want to text. I wish you the best of luck. But I’m also really excited to see which one of us breaks first.
I wish you were here, but if you were, it would burst this shining bubble of bright-eyed longing. Fragile though it is, I love how it feels inside: secure in the knowledge that you’ll sate my wish to see you eventually. In that comfortable place I can revel in this bittersweet pleasure of longing.
I’ll explain this to you better when the bubble bursts and you’re in my arms. Wrapped tight between my thighs, all warm and solid and kissing me. Rolling joints on my bare backside or fetching snacks from the kitchen or holding my hair tight while I swallow your dick. Taking the piss out of me, and letting me do the same to you, each joke a verbal kiss or touch or stroke that will be echoed physically in a moment.
I wish you were here in this moment. Gently mocking me for writing this. For eking out the joy of delayed gratification, enjoying the two-in-one pleasure that is both ‘seeing you’ and ‘anticipating the moment when I see you.’
Instead of just texting you one word:
Come.
1 Comment
Currently separated against our will from my girlfriend since we got evicted for summer (oh the cosmopolitan delights of unregulated tourism), stuck on each one’s parents’ homes on opposite ends of the country, 24 travelling hours across land & sea and 100€ of distance between us we’re too poor to afford nary once cross. Done part until summer’s end and already I miss her so.
Every day we text, and call, and sometimes do the NY times word games together (my fav. is connections, she’s more of a -junior jumble- wordle gal). Every day she tells me about her archery practice as I try my hardest not to gush on how proud and fascinated, and a little scared but in a hot way a plain Jane normal dude like me is to have made up with a shy & horny Valkyrie where others can at most do a woman. Every day we independently strain our little heads to find new and novel ways to tease each other with just the right words, just the right pictures at just the right time, to get ahead in the horny arms race, and make each other admit they’re more of a shameful, lusting dog in heat than ourselves. Currently I am winning by grace of a strategic photo crop, but my little Valkyrie happens to be a veritable sexual savant, so I have to keep my wits about me and expect the unexpected as I plan my next move (which will, at a minimum involve a camera tripod and a visit to a sex shop)!
Neither of us knows however, how we’ll be able to last the rest of the summer apart like this. I can’t watch or read porn anymore without mentally replacing the actress with her in my head, often selecting videos based on how much the actress looks like her. She told me yesterday she was prescribed by her gynaecologist a daily vaginal insertion pill and that she closes her eyes and tries to convince herself it’s me every time she takes it. Both of us have trouble sleeping when we, in search of calming down, lunge our arms forwards on each of our beds only to find that no-one’s there. Never have my plushies that since childhood have been with me on my highs and lows (mostly lows, to be frank) felt as cold as this.
I don’t really have a point with this, it was just my way of saying thanks to you, Nettie for making me relate with you wherever you may happen to be and whatever you may happen to be doing. If I passed you on the street I wouldn’t know you, but we can still share that sentiment, that longing, hold it up and show each other, and everyone else under like circumstances (highly suspect it’s quite a few folk around), and in so doing, indulge in the luxury of knowing we’re not alone.
So, uh, thanks.