Alex's Kisses

His kisses, full of fiery strength, always promise a feast for the senses. There's no control in love. He's pinned to the wall, his thick neck forming an arch from beautiful broad shoulders to the soft tuft of hair tickling at my palm. As I encroach upon my sumptuous prize, heels raised, a sabotage of the senses betrays me. I am Pavlov's bitch, salivating at the friendly assault of masculine aroma, breathing in the sweet bouquet of man, my man. A hand slides down my back and delirium. Sometimes, there's pressure. Sometimes, a chase. Most times, I come to, groping, and he's groping, like lost pilgrims finally come home. And how many times might I lose myself, and he himself, to journey to some holy place, to bask in the exquisite void? Till death, with many happy returns.