by Angie

Last night I stood in a club leaning against my lover who was draped on a
bar stool. Each beat of the music seemed to pound through my body with the
same seductive disco beat of all house music. She turned to me with less
than focused eyes and asked me to talk dirty. I acknowledged her request
by kissing her neck; the soft spot behind and below her left ear. She and
I both realized that this gesture was a kind refusal of a request
completely out of my scope. She hugged me as if forgiving and accepting my
inability. I thought to myself if only I could truly express to you the
way you make me feel, then the word dirty would never be used.

I love the way your hard-nosed sheild melts when we make love.
I love the glazed-eyed look that says "I love you" even when you won't say
it aloud.
I love the feel of your hands hesitantly testing each spot for some sign of
delight: almost as if unsure of your own place in this game.
I love the soft feel of your breasts brushing against my stomach as you
inch downward teasingly.
I love the authoritative grip of my thighs as you taste every inch while
refusing to allow me to run from submission.
I love the rhythm of your thrusts as you move againgst me mound to mound
fighting for that just out of reach crest.
I love the sound of your quickened breathing in my ear as you come closer
to reaching your height.
I dream of the cry given just as you reach it with no regrets or restraints.
But dirty is never a word that comes to mind.

Copyright © 1998. Used by permission of author. All Rights Reserved.