the perfect lover.

12Apr08

*Jonathan’s* eyes are sad. They turn down at both corners, making little frowning pools of light. I could stare at them forever, trying to decipher what it is that makes them that way, knowing full well it’s just the shape of his sockets that creates the illusion of pain. Even when he smiles, as he often does, his eyes still droop into those upside down crescents I’m so intrigued by.

We have a real connection, Jonathan and me. Sometimes I feel that those eyes have special powers. That they can reach into my brain and make sense of the jumbled mess inside. He can pinpoint my thoughts and make them his own. And he does, and it scares me. There are no secrets. There can’t be when I know he reads me like the back of a cereal box. But I keep coming back. Making excuses to see him. Staying with him later than I intend, just because I lose track of time until the lids start to fall across my own bright eyes.

Just as my mind starts wandering to how it would feel to touch him. For him to kiss me. To watch those sad eyes look over my body and to see his look of approval. To feel his hands caress my sides. I wonder about his tongue. His cock. I close my eyes and I can feel his breath on my neck and his hands in my cunt and I sigh. A barely audible moan that snaps me back to reality. Just as all these thoughts run through my mind, he tells me he’s ruined a handful of friendships by doing just what I’d been fantasizing about. He has no way of knowing what I’ve been thinking. That’s what scares me.

So I leave my romantic musings for later. When I’m with him, I keep the conversation steered at common ground. Music. Movies. Books. But when I’m home, in bed, alone, the desire rushes back in. I envision him dominating me. Telling me what to do and how to do it and all the while focusing every ounce of his attention on me. His hands roam. He takes control and draws me towards him like the possession that I love to be. He’s the perfect lover because he can read my mind. He knows what I want, how I want it, when to push further and when to stop. I don’t even mind the sadness in his eyes because I know they’re why I’m turned to mush in his bed. But then I realize I’m in mine and Jonathan is nowhere to be found. Maybe he can read my mind from afar. I can only hope.



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