Sexual Telepathy

Dear Motown Lover,

We’ve been gambling in dangerous territory for a while now. Submitting to the flirtatious hands of seduction as I throw my chin up and toss my shoulders back. Seemingly intoxicated on laudanum and each other’s high coos.

My back pressed against the counter top, as you slow grind between my fleshy thighs. Remember that one time we tried it with head stand as your hand cradling my buttocks? Explicit memories on the stairs, in the car — and really everywhere in between.

Then there are times when we play it safe —not too safe, abandoning our thoughts on another astral plane, where we sorta resonate on a wavelength. Confined to the pleasure of a telepathic game.

One thing I know is there’s no compass to measure the latitude  — no device that confirms the magnitude of these nostalgic vibes.

I especially revel in getting undressed by your lustful eyes. Almost as much as I love the sight of your naked bum. In the end, we’re clothed with each other’s skin and the night.

We share our secrets with the creatures of the night and our wobbly bed, addicted to the scent of each other skin, so that even when the sky weeps and we’re caught out in the rain, there will always be something I look forward to.

I feel fuzzy at the thought of you and my jaw softens into a beaming smile. Though I’m not one for the thespian romance, the virus spreads even to the strongest of us.

Your kiss jeopardises the core of my buttress. I’m trapped in the cervices of our bond.

Yet I’m not willing to be saved.

One thing I know is there’s no compass to measure the latitude  — no device that confirms the magnitude of these nostalgic vibes.

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