This is what you do. Strike a matchstick and leave behind an inferno. I would hesitate touch you now. I would burn.
Take me with you everywhere today. Keep me, high on the inside of your thigh. I am a glass of beer balanced between your legs and you cannot spill a drop. You know it well; the tense muscles. The slip and slide. The hot and cold at once. The strength and fragility – like glass.
I will tell you all about what happens to a glass of beer between your legs: I will sweat. And my sweat will run down my sides and begin to dampen your garments. I will stay wet and cold on the outside. Wet and burning on the inside. Each turn of the wheel, each hesitation on the speed breaker, each swerve, each jerk, I will lurch and be thrown against your skin. Slammed into your muscles. Recede and pulse again into the heat of your legs wrapped around me, gripping my whole form. Sometimes you may even sense getting soaked but you will wonder if it is from the outside or within. Once in a while you will reach down to touch. But you will stroke. You will caress. Your fingers will linger on the cool surface until they are puckered. You will glance downward and see the froth and suddenly feel parched. Your fingers will disobey you and will immerse themselves into the fluid. A little. Then deeper. And deeper still until they are completely submerged. You will stay there a few seconds until you are made aware of yourself and then bring your fingers to your mouth and smear your lips before licking them clean.
Your thighs will tremble. Your body will shudder. Your breath will quicken and your voice will betray you to a moan. And I will not accept anything less than everything. To know you is to love you.
I am wondering if your breath tastes of beer now. If your nipples do. If your hair smells of barley. If your skin tastes of malt.
You will need to whisper your silences to me now.
You make me want to take possession of you. And submit to you, equally. I have so much to show you. The wonders of your body. Its secrets. Its hiding places. Its hidden treasures and quiet alleys. Its trapdoors and concealed stairways. Its dark corridors. And its resplendent gardens that thrive in love.
I will be on you everywhere today. And tonight. In your hair. On your skin. Under it. Inside your veins. I am the breath in your ear. The fingers in your hair. The tongue between your legs. The hand on your thigh. The blinking eyelash on your navel. The mouth at your breasts.
So I ask you now – will you let me be the precarious beer glass nestled between your thighs, on the highway this morning?