She never touches me.
Beneath this stoic exterior beats a passionate heart and an inferno of unexpressed and unquenched desire. A painful knot of self doubt. A very masculine lack of confidence, whittled away down the years.
A glimpse of a pretty girl and my imagination takes hold, flared nostrils, a quickening of breath, a runaway imagination – and then shame at feeling such need and want at nothing more than the sight of a total stranger.
Shame again at resorting to pornography, to erotica, to memories of lovers long gone, hidden in the mists of my youth, idealised by nostalgia. Hands sticky with tears and cum when I can bear it no longer and succumb to temptation, for even a minute’s relief from the gnawing want that twists in my gut.
Ripped clothing in desperate passion.
The fleshy ‘snap’ of a nipple escaping my teeth.
The heady scent of a woman’s sweat.
The electric-battery zing of the taste of a woman’s cunt.
I want to lick the tears from a cheek.
I want to hear the smack of flesh on flesh and breathy groans.
I want to mark a woman’s body as mine with runes of cum, scratches and bites.
I want a doll in my chains, reddened, squirming, calling out desire.
I want a lioness to draw the blood from my back with her nails.
I want to make a woman cum and cum and cum until she faints.
I want to see a woman’s spit and lipstick glisten on my cock.
I want to lose myself and be lost, to fill a willing, eager body with flesh and life.
I need. To be needed.
I cannot stray. I am loyal. Always and forever.
But I am lonely for the merest, slightest touch, the dark-eyed, lip-bitten gaze of attraction and it hurts more than I can stand to feel no touch but my own.