Missing

I am disgruntled. I am not used to this. To want someone and nobody else. I lie in my bed, at night, thinking that I want him in that very simple way.

The way he talks, the way he smells, the way he looks. The way his thick gorgeous hair stubbornly falls on the wrong side and I impatiently smooth it back from 'posh boy' to a 'matinee idol' look.

I miss his presence. His clipped foppish tones when he talks to me leisurely between the drags of a cigarette. 

His lazy ways when he drops clothes just where he stands. Which really does not bother my usually fastidious self because when he's naked, I can feel him all over my body so little details of his clothes dumped everywhere do not bother me.

I even miss him getting annoyed with me because I am a fidgety, breathy, noisy insomniac, I am all nervy and anxious with my mind racing at 2.00 a.m and when I bolt the bed in a haughty way, he pulls me back under the protective armour of his arms and legs, wrapping me in a safe cocoon.

I miss his messy ways of cooking a dinner when my tiny kitchen looks like Al Quaida has blown up Sainsbury's veg isle.

But most of all I miss it when he walks in, holds me, kisses me, and then, as a result of our drooling needy sensation, me usually wearing something inconsequentially accessible, he bends me over something that's near, table, chair, bed, kitchen top, not checking how wet I am because there is no need to, drives his cock inside me and fucks me so hard, he has to keep the little madame quiet with his hand in my mouth and spunk all over me as I come, arch and feverishly lick and bite his fingers like a wily little kitten.

Come home.