The Empty Bedstead

Would change the context.

I want you warm as a loaf of bread,

Thousand ways to be fed

She’s a siren down the road,

In your herringbone overcoat,

You don’t expect to get back.

Go to her, foolish man:

What’s the use of having pride if you don’t have her?

She’ll endure all she can,

Let’s find a hotel or a chalet or a dome up a mountain. Let’s act sheepish and nervous as we arrive, put our bottles of courage in the fridge and quietly, carefully walk around one another, brushing past, touching hands, exchanging glances, slowly realising the silence is real, and we really are alone.

That's all I can do when

Haven't got a clue when

I'll see you again

And when that day comes

And all I shouldn't say runs

Out before I stop it

'Cause I felt it as I thought it

We will struggle with the truth

That sometimes we don't get to

Love who we are meant to

Love who we are meant to

Drafting as I drift

I cannot write nor reckon it

So will I let it wreck me

Or wreck my dream of family?

Even denial is romantic

And that's romance's disadvantage

That sometimes we don't get to

Love who we are meant to

Well, maybe that you're a real man

Is what is in the way

'Cause the idea of the man I love

He's always loved me in his lonely way

What I can feel from my ideal love

Is also love

As if I’m in the bedroom in the hotel where I took you for a brief encounter, where you received me, then straddled my face and made me swallow my full thick load from your freshly fucked pussy.

That’s not what you deserve. You need to be soaked in sweat, anxiously rubbing out one more guilty spasm, stifling your moans to spare the neighbours. I’ll have your fingers soaked in your wetness and your mind filled with conflict, trying to get to grips with the slutty, nasty majestic woman you become when you let a man treat you this way.

“Would you like to know what I’m longing for?” he asked, knowing an answer would come eventually, but eventually would be too long.

“Well, let me tell you. I’m longing for your body, face down on that hotel bed, in the city, with the view. I’m longing for your back arched, your pussy and your little asshole raised to facilitate me. I’m longing for the humidity around your little needy cunt, honey. I’m longing for the first taste of your guiltiest juices, the first feeling of your slippery, sweet wetness on my tongue.

I’m longing for the feeling of your ass cheeks on my hands, your ever-so reactive, receptive movements, doing exactly what I want with the smallest bidding. I’m waiting for the feeling of your pussy lips on my lips, the slight abrasion of your almost perfectly shaved sex against the edges of my mouth and the perfect smooth of your vulva against my tongue.

I’m longing for your submission to my need to lick inside your cunt. I’m longing for your acceptance of this little foible, the fact you present this to me, and the fact that the inevitable consequence of me eating your pussy is me eating your ass.

I’m longing for the slight disbelief in your voice as I lick your asshole, sweetie. I’m longing for the total resignation in your voice to the reality that you have nothing to hide from me, nothing to keep secret from me. I’m longing for the tension in your breathing knowing that the only thing you must keep secret is me, myself.

I’m longing for your tits. I’m longing for your thighs. I’m longing for the shield like muscle in the small of your back that I can’t help wanting to immerse in my cum.

I’m longing for your kiss. I’m longing for the look in your eyes as your mouth engulfs my cock. I’m longing for the feeling of your soft hair in my calloused, old hands. I’m longing for the look on your face when my cock first enters you. I’m longing for the feeling of my crotch tight against yours and the moist sweaty wetness of your cunt against my balls and all that means for what comes next.

Even though she wakes you with a kiss,

Do not say the moment was imagined,