Want

I want to be wanted. I want someone to care if I am home after work or to find me someone worth leaving work for.

I want to be missed in my absence and I want to profess my missing her.

I want to be seen in those vulnerable, ungroomed, just awakened moments and not have to offer the hasty apology or get out the best coffee mugs and pretend I know how to brew the stuff, as doesn't everyone drink it?? Hide the cocoa I actually prefer and the mess in the spare room behind a shut door. Edit the CD collection of the cringe-worthy purchases and find the better knickers.

I want to find out what she –this mysterious she"- enjoys. Does she like fingers or tongue or something else? Hard or soft on her flesh? What does she taste like? Will she let me taste her there?

Can I tell her about that cane in the cupboard, purchased in hope? The small paddle and the stories, those I read and god, those I write?

Can I crawl across her lap, when all is said and done, and ask for one more thing? That thing I also want?