I kiss his ebony silk for skin and stroke his bottom lip.
He waits for my mouth to travel to his cheek.
Then back again onto his eyelid.
His tender fingers are like butter; smooth yet light like whipped cream.
The papery softness of his skin reminds me of rice paper. Delicate with no wrinkle.
My six foot statue of natural blackness is my craving that I obsess over; His slim sculptured physic carved with muscle sends my thoughts to the naughty places.
Those black-brown saucers for eyes are bold with a glare of freshness.
I want him in my bed but to sleep beside me.
I want his sex
I want his mouth to go down on me
I want his mind. Its all a masterpiece.
The colour of his shirt won't stay in my mind long enough because all I can think about is how to get it off.
My mister doesn't want me though; He wants my friend.