Twice a day, tongue deep,
and not once does he make me feel like the desperate one.
As if he’s the one who needs it more than me.
Brandon leans closer,
tongue flat and following the line of my slit,
eyes glassy green and attached to mine.
It’s past 4 a.m., 58 degrees and dropping,
East River wind slicing through the terrace.
I’m shivering,
soaking,
smoking,
legs open to September,
and I’m fine.
Because his mouth’s burning between my thighs,
tongue easing in hot,
dragging filth into me.
I moan, then take a swig of wine?—
warmth spreading in my chest,
warmth flooding up my pussy.
The heat’s fucking both ends of me.
His jaw stays slack,
tasting my drip on his tongue,
and then he groans.
I sink further into the chair,
the terrace breeze biting,
ass damp,
legs spread,
pussy getting licked while a cigarette burns slow between my two fingers,
thinking: you can either say exactly what you want,
or spend forever aching for what you never asked for.
