Vulgar Visceral Verismillitude

I don’t feel like pretending I don’t want this.

If you’re looking for the girl who will play it coy, look elsewhere.
I’m not going to feign disinterest, it’s not my style.

That cock?
I want it hard and I want it buried inside me (where? you tell me.) so deep I forget my fucking name.

I want those hands to remake my flesh like I’m made of modelling clay and your imagination is the only thing that stands between the woman I am and the re-creation you know me to be.

I want your mouth on me, your lips speaking in tongue a language my senses grasp without needing a translator, because there is home somewhere between the gasps and the begging.

I want you to end me, break me down and remake me in an image more honest, one that I’ll recognize regardless of how long she’s been away.
I’m tired of apologies, of excuses, of reasons why it can’t go any further than this.

I don’t need to see you tomorrow, but I want to feel you forever there.

I want you to fucking ruin me for the others because they play nice and

I don’t need nice.
I need true.

I need truth to capture me whole and swallow me alive and make me reel with the possibilities.

I need the possibilities to be probable.

I need the probabilities to be unreasonable.

I need to step outside the realm of sane now and then.

I crave the crazy, the unabashed mirth you carry like a sword, avenging all of the humourless misdeeds lined up in my past like a misspent youth gone awry.

I crave the brazen, the confident, the one who knows what I need but refuses to give it until I ask him to.

Take me up, make me count, let me fall, throw me down and catch me.
Because I don’t feel like pretending any more.

I want this.

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