The Dream and Preoccupation

I can't get you out of my head. That's a problem, you see because all I seem to think about is you; you walking into my classroom at the end of the day, thigh length dress hugging your exotic form. As the door latches behind you, you reach me, running your fingers through my hair and pulling my head to meet yours. Our lips interlock and our tongues intertwine while our bodies generate friction from the satin of your dress rubbing against the denim of my jeans.

We have to go. Let's try to meet here tomorrow. Same time.

You might say I am haunted by these thoughts. Haunted because I can seem to stop them. Haunted because no matter how much I work to keep these thoughts at bay during the day, I never cease to then dream about them each night.

Kids are sleeping, a surprise visit. Some wine and cookies put us in playful moods with fewer inhibitions. A laugh, a look, the brief grazing of our hair on one another's cheek as our heads tilt forward and then back, all beg the message "I give myself to you."

A hand gently cups a face and expresses it toward the other. Our lips meet and a warmth of want and wanton flow to our chests causing hearts to feel as though they may, very well, beat right out of our souls to meet on their own ethereal plane and consummate their desires, reaching one another's resting place.

A flash, that dream has ended and I lay awake panting, stiffened by the rush of anticipation to every extremity that has now let me down so. That rush, that feeling, that burn, once familiar, has become but a dream that has only served the purpose of torturing my mind and being. Will I sleep again? Should I sleep again? I will only dream. Dream my fantasy, my illusion, my unattainable, eroticism that could help me, save me, free me.

I must have drifted back to sleep; here you are again, in your satin dress. The curve of your breast leading to the sway in your hip acts as a mechanism in hypnotizing me. Your eyes sparkle with your desire, lids gently kissing irises in preparation for the anticipated. They are dark, deep, in a word, sexy. A smile dons your mouth, as it can't seem to stop itself from coming. Your mouth betrays you in its failed suppression of your want. Your breath pours over my lips and begs them open to take in your passion, an embrace as our desires melt together.

Your zipper melts away and my hands feel your skin for the first time. Your back, heaving slow while you draw me in from our kiss, is supple, soft, as if lightly oiled or powdered after our shower together this morning. Your hands raise my shirt above my head, off, and with a small roll of your shoulders, your dress falls away. Our eyes lock and your hands lead mine to your chest.

"Feel my heart beat," your only words. You unhook your bra from your cleavage causing a surge in your breath, your heartbeat and my ardor. Your lips on my neck, you lean into me, our heartbeats clench one another and we are stripped. Stripped of our inhibitions, stripped of our worries, stripped of our confines. Arms around the other we fall into bliss. Our bodies instinctually feel each other's needs. Where we want the other to be. What we want the other to touch next. Where we want to be kissed next, held next penetrated next.

"May I enter you?"

"Please."

I lay awake again. My body, moist with the sweat of the pleasure that was denied, peals itself from my sheets to splash water upon my face. Were it to be real, passion satiated, infatuation exercised, fantasy fulfilled, I may sleep again. Were it to be real.

Part II: Preoccupation

I am preoccupied. Most get preoccupied with bills; work, maybe a do-it-yourself project gone amiss. Me? I am preoccupied with the mere thought of a sexual encounter. I imagine what are probably silly things. Things like pointing out to you that your underwear is showing. You lift you shirt and ask where, exposing your stomach. "Oh, I thought I saw it at the back of your waist line when you bent over." I say. "Aren't they pink?"

Pulling your waistband away from your hip, you respond, "Red."

"Nice, do they have a design or are they just your basic panties."

"They have a little frill around the band." The corner of your mouth is beginning to curl.

"May I see?" and I reach. You say nothing, but open yourself and allow me to unbutton your jeans, folding back the top.

"These are very sexy, soft too."

I can feel the soft bumps of your pubic hair under the cotton fabric. Maintaining eye contact, my hand moves to feel your warm mound. Gently, I press with my finger and the cotton becomes wet and warmer.

Your eyes close and breath escapes your mouth, lips relaxed, soft and flush. I match my lips to yours and like an inferno, our tongues entwine in a hot flash of passion. Your fingers, clad with blood red nails, grip the back of my head and sew themselves through my shoulder length hair.

During this explosion of want and desire, you push me back to the floor and climb on top of me. Rubbing, pushing our pelvises together we kiss with the heat of the bright center of the universe. My hands and arms wrap around you squeezing, petting, tracing and taking all of you. You unfasten my pants and slide them down my legs.

"You don't wear underwear."

With that you glide your body up mine to meet my lips again.

"I want you inside me."

I roll you over and remove your jeans and frill trimmed, red, cotton secrets. Your blouse is lifted over your head; your erect nipples and swollen areolas all but beg to be suckled.

"No bra?"

You smile wryly and pull my shirt off too. I take your breast into my hand and mouth.

"Kiss me and enter me."

Your arms reach around my back and your nails help to hold you next to me as we kiss again. Coming together, I guide myself into your, now, lava hot beckoning. Our lips part a moment as you gasp only to meet again, harder and deeper.

A moment . . .

Our bodies lay still . . .

I am throbbing inside of you . . .

Time stops and the stars hold their pattern. You contract around me once . . . twice; on the third you whisper, "Come inside me, please."

Tonight we dream, tomorrow we will wake up lying, as we were the evening before.