Punky Fu

Tired beyond belief - sleep like some elusive drug that we’ve binged upon, and now gone dry into states of withdrawal. The hallucinations are growing increasingly real. We must get to bed. At least that’s the plan.

But in the times we have together, time is precious - and sleep seems like the ultimate waste. We have never run out of topics - deeply penetrating talks that carry us in-between the moments.

And then there are those other times when I cannot contain myself. I see her and am consumed. She says she doesn’t mind. I’m glad, because I don’t think I could hold it in. My eyes roam over her form in a close approximation of what my hands and following mouth want to do. “What?” she asks innocently - the way Little Red Riding Hood might ask of the drooling beast wanting to consume her.

Up in the misty dark bedroom, the wind howls through the stripped trees. Now only the evergreens provide cover from the orange glow of the city night sky and the incessant traffic on the highway a stone’s throw away. We put on music - now a cue that makes me grow hard with anticipation. I wait as long as I can - trying to touch her gently before the passion explodes.

Long into the night we dance - the soundtrack of our lovemaking varies as we re-define desire. And when I think I couldn’t possibly go on, another smile, another nuzzle or taste, and I’m gone again - riveted to her by a jackhammer need to fill and overflow.

We’ll talk. But soon we’ll be hungry again and once again feed the need.