A poem, free form, about the nature of lust and attraction.
Shoulders forward, you slouch through the office.
Pants droop low on your hips, taunting gravity and tempting me.
How, I wonder, can I be attracted to someone so young?
Someone who dresses like a hip-hop video?
But I am.
I find you compelling.
Every time you cross my line of vision, I am caught.
My eyes follow you from door to desk and back again.
Do you feel their heat burning through those pale blue boxers you display so proudly?
I loved your hair when it was long.
Shaggy, unkempt, begging to have fingers -- my fingers -- threaded through it.
And I love it now, buzzed into a spiky halo.
It calls to my hands.
Cries out "Come. Feel me. Touch me. Let me tickle your palms."
I imagine what it might feel like against my cheek as you lick, suck, kiss, bite where my shoulder meets my neck.
What do you taste like?
If I were to kiss your mouth, would it taste spicy? Sweet?
That patch of skin behind your right ear, just past that luscious dark mole, does that have a different flavor than the skin in the hollow of your collarbone?
Would you allow me to map your body by taste so that I could identify which part of your anatomy was offered to my mouth even in the dark?
Could I drag my tongue across the plains of your stomach? Down to the juncture of hip and thigh?
Is there a light dusting of hair leading to your cock, or is your belly well furred?
My hands tremble on the keyboard as I think what your cock might look like.
Would I see it first soft, nestled on its bed of curls? Are those curls the same sable brown as your hair?
Or would my first introduction be to the rampant erection, stiffly saluting, quivering with desire, seeking its blind pleasure?
I swiftly swallow the moisture flooding my mouth as you once again enter my field of view.
You need help with some copies.
I'll show you how.
It is warm in the copy room.
It has been so all day, but now I find myself sweating.
I look up at your jaw line as you watch my fingers on the keypad.
Why am I not allowed to lick you there?
My heart is dancing, skipping, leaping. Chocolate covered espresso beans and intense arousal combine to produce palpitations.
I would gladly stand next to you and make all of the copies you need, but you see how it is done and thank me for my help.
I have never returned to my chair out of breath just from making copies.
My mind returns to the cataloging of your imagined tastes, smells, textures.
Beep, beep, beep, I hear from the Xerox.
After all the paper jams of last week, I never thought I would be so elated to hear that sound.
I round the corner and you smile at me.
It is a nervous smile, or maybe self-deprecating as you sheepishly tell me something must be wrong.
It is a sweet smile, one that touches me.
I realize that I do not know you near well enough.
What do you do when you aren't slouching through my fantasies?
What is your favorite book? movie? color?
Do you prefer clover honey, or sage?
Do we like any of the same things?
If we were to spend time together, what would we both enjoy?
I toy again with the idea of disclosing this crazy schoolgirl attraction and I realize that it is unnecessary and premature.
What good is it to tell you what I want when I do not even know myself?
If you were a man I met in passing, at a club or out at Faire, places where these things are done, I would take my chances and act on the physical desires.
But I have not met you in passing.
I have known you since you were born.
Most everyone I know knows you and vis versa.
If this is never to be more than a primal attraction, then it will do no harm to keep it to myself and enjoy my fantasies.
The pleasure in that is a selfish one and I do not need reciprocation.
It is mine alone.
If it is to be more... If we might establish a friendship, then this is not the time for confessions.
For now, I will just bask in the giddy pleasure I feel at the sight of you.
At the thought of you.
At the mere fact of you.
And thank you for your existence in my life.