(September 2010)

I’m alone in our hotel room. The kids are asleep next door, and you are out. With whom, I have no idea. I can hear the drumming from the street below and the beat is waking me up in a new way.

I want to be out with you. Or without you — leaving you behind here in the cavernous hotel room prison. Time’s going too slowly, dragging its feet on the sidewalk below. You can’t see or feel from a lonely hotel room. I want to get out into the city at night.

This trap magnifies my wanting. It makes me hate you, even. Yet I know what hating does to a person, so I turn it around. All of my emotions, all of my wanting pools in my center. My pussy starts tingling. The wetness feels like the cool night air to me, the throbs come in time with the drums.

I want to go out, to search for you, I want to find more than I’m looking for. I want too much. But I must wait with the sleeping kids, so I do. Hours pass and finally you come. I don’t speak. I pretend to sleep until you lie next to me, then I come alive, pouncing you.

I’m hungry — starving — and you are all I want. I grab you, I lick you, I bite you. You love it. You have no idea how jealous I am, no idea of the wild ideas I have of what you’ve done, what you’ve seen. You claim credit for all my desire, you own it as you thrust into me, both of us nearly shouting in this anonymous hotel room.

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