by Dean Johnson
(07/09/08)
Time and space is the enemy of the obsessive mind. Even across the miles I wake in the middle of the night with shudders of delight and wonder if your hands are in the same place as mine, caressing those parts that I let you own. Your name is tattooed across my shaft with invisible ink. These nightly dreams leave me aching for your touch and the feel of your lips wrapped around me, teasing me with every deft swipe of your temptress tongue.
If only this was real.
I'm tired of lucid dreaming. No amount of fantasy can replace the taste of your wetness on my lips or the sight of my cock glistening with your juices as I slide in and out of you. Pick up the phone and moan in my ear across the distance. Let me know that I'm not alone in these thoughts. Sometimes at night I mistake my sweat for the remnants of your river having run wild over my body.
My pillow misses your billows of curly raven hair and I miss the sight of your outstretched pale form on my sheets. At night I swear I can still feel your breath against me, but I know my mind is playing games, because it's been weeks since we've shared a bed.
Still, the wonders of the modern world help ease this lust-fueled pain. The e-mails. The instant and text messages. The cell phone calls at one a.m. from an Irish Pub 717.5 miles away. You -- blushed face and full of Guinness. Me -- wishing I was there to drive you home. All of this leaves me yearning for your next visit and leaves me counting the days like a child awaiting Christmas Eve. Another day, another X on the calendar.
Upon each visit I surrender to my baser instincts as our bodies quickly become intertwined. Language becomes simple and primal. Love becomes tactile and no longer consists of strings of binary code. Even the alarm clock, that dictator of modern life, holds less sway during those few mornings I find you in my bed; an illusion no more.
Each visit you leave something behind. Whether it is thin red lines on my back or a discarded black thong in the hamper, pieces of you are left here. Pieces of you that end up meaning so much to me as I take a black marker to the calendar and make another X.
