Next to me. Forehead against the back of your head. Soft baby curls all gone. Greedily inhaling the defiantly cute bristles. Lips touching the back of your silky smooth neck. Breath lightly moistening your nape. Your furry little ass warming my thighs under the covers. Ice cold air blowing over us. Heat index steady and humid without. Stealing kisses from your warm neck in quick succession. (One. Two. Three. Four.) Careful not to wake you. I want to eat you alive. You know this. My arm so tight around you my fingertips rest sleepily in your armpit. My hard dick flick-tapping a sticky Morse code on your ass: "Let me in. Let me..." (Five. Six. Seven. Eight.) I want to fill you with milk. My milk. Decorate your insides with Pure Unadulterated ME (Number 9) just because I want to. I groan the thought that Dalí was right:
I want to consume you.
Instinctually, you want to allow yourself to be. Consumed, that is. We both know. It's why you tease me. (Because you can.) It's why I let you. You and I still in this dance. After. All. This. Time. Descendant of Dionysus and progeny of Pan that I am, I have no inhibitions claiming my rightful place among such illustrious Pagan heritage. I'll wait for my proper invitation, should that ever come. Despite my leaking tribute and sweaty ripeness, neither hedonistic reveler nor goat god will I be tonight. I've taken the form of mere mortal just to hold you. (Because I can.) I like our dance.