Con mis manos mortales

These days and nights have been strong, directed and tender all at once. Earlier this evening I was reminded of one of the more ridiculous truths of me in that, when I put on my favorite cologne, I end up turning myself on from its scent. It is an unexpected and distracting element of tonight, and one that gets odd when interacting with strangers, but it is pleasurable. It makes me think of some of the colognes you used to wear.  Something between black pepper and white linen.

I've been thinking about your hands as of late. I seem to have a thing for people with small hands and fat-stub fingers. That probably isn't surprising. It's been quite a long time since I've been with someone who has fingers and hands that match mine.

I think of you masturbating, sometimes. I'm not sure if that is weird to say, but, it's the truth.  I think of how fucking sexy you are when you do it and I start to laugh when I wonder if your cat, sometimes, gets in the way. (Not a euphemism).

In any case. I have work to do if I am going to meet up with these people, tonight. I am in an odd combination of business mode (clean lines, black and charcoal and a deep grey because, as you know, they are different) and the mode of what would make you nervous sometimes. The mode that has no shame and only wants to see you do all that you've never done. There is no blushing. Only eye contact and those thick-ass thighs of yours that I love. Thighs that quench my thirst and demand it again in one, weighted, motion.

This painting, by Ángel Zarraga, reads, very small in the bottom right hand corner:

Señor,
No sé  celebrarte
como el poeta
en versos complicados
pero acepta
Señor
esta obra áspera
y humilde
que he hecho
con mis manos mortales.


And at times, to you, I say the same.



be well; be loved,

k.