Fucking is so much more…

I’ve discovered short erotic poetic writing on Instagram — sometimes there are photographs and sometimes just words fill the screen. The words are always revealing, and as a voyeur, I follow and passively observe.

The words speak of desire and raw sexuality — sometimes softened photographs reveal tattoos and cleavage but nothing ever as raw as the words. Words of obsession, vulnerability, and ravaged skin fill the screen; a surrender to everything. Bold with conviction, the words speak of the unabashed proclivity for the flesh.

The words are well written — the reason I know this, is after I put the phone down, I always have a desire to fuck; sometimes it’s the author I want to taste but other times it’s the person beside me I want to pinch my harden nipples and suck on my clit. Sometimes I carry the words with me for days and when I do fuck Winston, I bite and scratch with desire and wanting — demanding to be satisfied.

The other day someone said, “Fucking is fucking” but when I look at my phone, I think to myself, “Fucking is so much more.”

I don’t even bother to explain.

S