I Am My Own Best Lover.

Came from a night of dancing. A short one. I got to sweat a little bit, got to feel that music and those bodies a little bit. Had to come home early. Parents. I live with my parents, and they have an opinion about when I should be home.

I'm 30.

With kids.

I can never escape those things, those wretched qualifiers. I don't really want them to be stricken from the record, but I wish they didn't carry the weight that they do when it's midnight and I'm listening to really good music. Alone.

Tonight, I could have been drinking a lot of wine with two very lovely people who would have locked me up and exquisitely whipped me. Tonight, I could have met them at their home while we talked and drank and coaxed pleasure out of the night. But I had to run. I felt wild. I felt smooth. I felt happy and beautiful, and the music I was listening to was rocking my ribcage, my shoulders. The strap from my pink satin camisole slid down off my shoulder, then my brastrap did. My hair was wild and puffy and my eyes looked dark and sparkling. The window was open and the almost-warm-enough air gave my body the idea that it wanted company. I wanted a car to slide up next to mine, window open. I wanted a soul inside that car to hear my music and see my smile and nod at me. I wanted someone to follow me to a dark spot somewhere, get in the van, lay down the seat wordlessly and listen with me to the passion pouring out of the speakers. I wanted to touch skin without sound, I wanted someone to taste my sweat and pull my hair, making my head snap sharply to one side, chin to shoulder, eyes cast down. Then the hand would release my hair and rake paths over my white shoulders, down my back, over my ribs. A hand would lift my chin and lips and tongue would devour mine.

All this... all this, alone, when i could have been in a bed with two lovely people with whips and wine. Or on the dance floor with sweat and pulse. And I'm here. 30, alone, with kids. Even if my husband were here, I would be alone.

I want a lover who understands this. I want a lover who loves the drama of lovemaking. I want to be touched the way I touch myself, and I want words to burn a path into my body. I want motion, tightness, firmness, locked bodies, smooth bodies, undulation and celebration. Desperation. Honest passion. Delicious skin.

So I will touch myself in the way I know how, and imagine there's someone there who knows this, who feels it, who can surround me with themselves. I want to walk right up to you, sink myself onto you, dance on top of you, feel the art and the music of my sex filling up the room and taking us both away.