Lovers

I like the word lover. Because it implies something that I cannot quite put into words.

I don’t want a one night stand, I don’t want sex. I want a lover. Because being with a lover is completely different than “hooking up.” You know it will happen again. And again. And if it ends, when it does, you will always have the delicious memories that can set your skin afire with a single thought. A memory of a touch. A kiss on your back. A hand between your legs. Fingers crawling inside of you. A tongue tracing the inside of your thighs.

“Lover” implies that I’m willing to have you put your lips in my most intimate places. Kissing me from my toes all the way up to my eyelashes and back down again. Or joining me in the shower and sharing much more than soap. Or grabbing me gently from behind while I stand at the kitchen sink.

Holding me for hours after until we do it all over again. And again.

Locking eyes so hard that it sets our skin on fire, buzzing, wanting more. Undressing me with your eyes. Touching me softly. A thousand tiny caresses.

Knowing what I need without me even asking. And being willing to give it unconditionally.

And when I’m not with you, I can close my eyes and the very thought of your touch sets me afire. Buzzing inside. Craving you. Wetness between my legs. In the middle of a meeting. At my desk. In the car. Waiting days (even weeks) to see you again.

Waiting in line for a coffee. Heavy sigh. Moaning out loud at the very thought of us entwined. Of your mouth on my thighs.

With a lover you feel safe. You can surrender in his/her arms. Giving everything over. Allowing them to turn you upside and sideways just to find a new way to pleasure you. Hearing music in your head as your heart sings, screams “more, more, more.”

And that feeling you get when the front door closes. And, you still want more. And so you wait. Knowing your lover will return. It’s not a question. Because it’s a certainty.

I’ve had sex. And I’ve had lovers. I’ll take the lovers. Every. Damn. Time.

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