If I am not an animal, then I do not know what I am. If my sexuality is not choreographed violence, then I do not know what it is.
What is this thing, this sexuality? It is something I cannot see. But it is a part of me, physically. It is my cock, my body, my hands, my lips. It is my skin and the explosion of sensation when I am touching you. Needing you. Thinking of you. It is ethereal; and comes and goes.
Out in the sun, I cover my sexuality with tailored fabric. During the day I mask the scent of myself and my sex – just as you do: behind walls and houses and clothes and money and duty.
But under it all, we are animals. Nude and salivating, dripping wet from our pores.
I am like you. And you are like me. The energy.
And so, blame me not if I picture you, dear stranger, without those clothes as you stroll past me during the day. At work. Bent over the kitchen sink. Passing through revolving doors…
Do not mistake me: I see your curves. I have memorized the asses and hips and legs of millions. I have hatched them all in charcoal. Outlines in my memory. Secretly I take them with me in my predatory exodus.
When it is quiet and I am alone, I redraw those shapes. I redraw you.
And even from where I am, miles and lifetimes away from you – I can pick-up on your scent.
I want you to know that I take you home with me every night. And the animal in me devours you without your asking. Without knowledge. The animal in all of us doesn’t want to ask. The animal in all of us doesn’t want knowledge.
If I do not want you with a controlled ferocity, in hysterics, then I do not want you at all.
If you will not die if you can not have me, wholly – then have me not at all.
This is where violence lives. This is where we are torrents of hot emotion, boiling-over, inescapable and starving naked.
But there is a dance within all this. The tango of terror. The salsa of seduction.
Even animals can dance. Do dance.
If the day is calm and full of routine and we are passing bodies in public places, touch me. Test me. Sample the current’s flow.
And then lick your finger to tell me as much.
I want you to, I need you to: Run through the forests of these glass buildings with me, like the animals we are: blind and savage and acting only on impulse. Uninhibited.
I want to feel your naked leg brushing up against my hand as we sit at the restaurant. I want to hear your breath above all else – drown out the sound the world around us. I want to be reminded, without words, that you decided to wear a skirt. I want you to drop the cage from my sex and remind me that, as you were dressing this morning you peeked around the corner of the bathroom with a deliciously devilish grin on your face. I want to feel your leg stroke my hand and I want to know – aching, desperately, hungrily know – what you are wearing underneath your skirt because you did not tell me.
I want you as my temptation. Unending, delirious temptation.
I want to never feel as though I am done. I want to crawl the streets, prowling for your heat, starving and unable to quench my thirst.
And in our day of routine, I want to roll the pads of my fingers up and over your thigh, under the restaurant table. And as the waiter is taking our order, I want you to open your legs and invite me to slide inside.
But do not mistake me: my fingers can tease. They are controlled in their appetite. They come slow. Up and toward your heat. I am soft in my pounce. But still, even before I am there, I can feel it – I want to feel it – I need to feel it: your heat.
I want the breath to go from my limp body in anticipation.
And when I slide up your thighs, I want you to open wider. I want you grin mischievously at the couple sitting across from us as though they can, if they want to, see under the table; see my hand reaching for your cunt. In ecstasy.
Because today you did not wear anything under your tiny little summer skirt.
From atop racks of clothes I want to see you wave me in. And I want to crawl towards you, slow enough not to cause a scene and show my fangs to the innocent, pleasing people around us.
But as soon as it is clear, I want to climb around the corner and meet you in the opened dressing stall in this busy store.
Teasingly, I want you to peel your shirt over your head revealing your pert nipples. Then, drop your skirt and begin trying on the outfits you used as excuses. You are not going to buy any of these garments and we know as much.
I want to quietly unzip myself and reveal my hard cock to you as a surprise when you turn around. And as you rub your chest, pinching your nipples in your hand’s trim down your side – you see me in the mirror. I am stroking myself.
I want you to fall to your knees, without choice and out of hunger – to take my swollen sex in your mouth. Tease me with your tongue and your eyes. Lick me and feed me with your hands cupped under my balls.
All the while we both know that anyone can see you kneeling before me – from under stall.
Once slow and seductive, I want your pace on my cock to quicken until you are taking all of me inside your hot, wet mouth on each stroke.
Then I want you stand, drop the clothes that hide your sex and straddle me. As though you have no choice.
I want desperately to see your perfect circle of ass in the mirror rocking back and forth, gyrating, taking all of me inside you with ferocity and grace. In dance.
I want to reach up and cup your mouth to silence your whispers of intoxication. And I want you look into me without deliberation and practice. Savage and satiated as though this was the panacea. The only cure for everything beyond us in this little space of the world.
I want your hot breath to rifle in quickening shots onto my palm as you begin to quiver. As your head falls back and one last long orgasm of breath shoots from you and into the world beyond us.
And all of this, without words. Because sometimes, animals only make guttural sounds.
You are all of the terrifying, beautiful vistas that I cannot fuck.
You are all of the seas that I cannot crawl into. Through.
I want you completely nude, with your legs splayed in acrobatics up and in the air as I am pounding down onto you – coming as close as I can to you. Without crawling through you.
Always: You are the emotional wall that I batter my ram against in some effort to understand this world better. Because here and now, in the face of you – I know nothing. I am nothing beyond this. Here and now. I am an animal. And our naked bodies, glistening with sweat and strain and tortured ecstasy slap together as the sound of all my fiery worlds colliding.
Your heaving chest as the Alps. Your cunt as the wettest, fertile valley. And your legs as the roads that lead me to your hungry, wet hole in this earth.
Anything less than this is unacceptable.
I am animal. And so are you.