It has been a long time since I watched pornography. That time in the bed with the link that was new. Instead I sit with my little collection of polite images that I flick through like postcards. Real paper things sent in the mail. Chaste images. A basket of feet and lips and fingers.
It seems I have grown out of lewdness. Grown mild. Talk of love. Love, love, love whispered so often that I have almost grown to believe it. Dream of things that have never occured. Dream of one step over the line two steps, naked perhaps but only for a minute, tasting of salt. Naked except for the salt. The idea of naked when I will never again be naked, stomps all over your fisting and your double entry and your circle of men with her on her knees. Just me standing in a clothed hug and the tickle of fingers on the naked small of my back and it is done.
Basket of polite images to dip into. Mind flowers, plucked. Petals one by one - loves me not. Same ones emerging like a surprise. Familiar surprise. Surprised into orgasm yet again.