Blunt Obsession, Compulsive
There is a compulsive obsession budding within me.
It’s palms sweat in regard to the feminine creation.
Her shape, her structure, her form…
It pins my insatiable appetite something in relation,
My perception interrogates her atomic design,
every cell receives query on purpose, function and are given timely remind-
Something innovates when in her presence. Something exuberant!
It’s a performer for her,
It writes her love poems and takes shifts to secure her proximity by approximately scanning her dressed nakedness in entirety.
It’s a sublime feeling this dark co-pilot riding inside.
He’s a master with dissecting her epidermal security measures… Successfully measuring pride as a egotistic 49 on a scale of 1-9.
I find myself masturbating the symphonies of her voice.
She leaves me no choice so I delicately de-flower her intricacies explicitly; mentally.
Kissing her intellect deeply and scouring her expressions scribing her thoughts… All her phenomenal delicacies.
I’m the observant prisoner to the besetting beast I play host to.
Her voluptuous breasts offset random massive erections. I hope she never witnesses the uncomfortable posture of my protruding pant crotch, my audible flatulence during nervous digestion.
A moment of brief exhaustion, fornication of hands as I high five her.
Things go bloodshot red and my vision goes Gaussian adapting to her composure. Her soft thighs wrapped around the insides of my grasp.
No taming by means of scotch,
Internal status orgasmic awesome,
Notwithstanding feeble attempts at resisting her overtures of exposure.
Becoming one with my uninvited passenger is all I ask…
“Primitively speaking, is it ok if we have sex?”