“Where are your fingers, right now?”
My fingers were wrapped around the telephone when you posed the question, but at your insistence, I unzipped my pants and slid my fingers beneath my panties. As I already knew, your words had made me wet.
“I keep thinking of licking you, licking around your nipples slowly until they become hard. I would suck them for a long, long time, then work my tongue down your belly. I would push your legs apart and lick everything I found there. I would hold you down while my tongue flicked your clitoris and licked up all your wetness. You are wet, aren’t you?”
How could I think when you were doing things like this to me? I was late, but yours was not a conversation that I wished to abandon quite so easily. Let them wait, I thought. And so they did.
“Where are your fingers now?”
“Circling my clit. Oh.. fuck.”
Your deep voice changes when you want me this badly. Your voice penetrates each detailed description of the various and sundry ways that you imagine fucking me. Your voice served as adequate distraction from the traffic and the noise and the hurry of the early evening. These distractions fed me, though: my secret thrill as I wandered in among friends, smiling though I was tired, and yes.. I did flirt. You knew I would. I flirted shamelessly, and every so often, I imagined your firm hand on my shoulder, you whispering behind me that you want me to take you to an empty room upstairs.
But not tonight. Tonight, you sit, cheering on someone you love. And I’ll talk talk, loving children and life, too. Just a little more thrilled, a little more laughing, a little more to tell you later.