'...whatever colors you have in your mind,
I'll show them to you and you'll see them shine... '
-- Bob Dylan, Lay Lady Lay
I don't want to eat you out, chew your furburger, lick your beaver, suck your clam, yodel in your canyon, munch your muffin, drink from your furry cup, dine at the Y, eat your pie, taste your honeypot, slurp your peach, lick your slit, kiss your coochie or go downtown for a box lunch.
All I really wanna do.... is dream of that glorious moment when you spread your legs widely for my hot loving flushed face. That heart pumping moment of divine revelation and sexual surrender. That throat tightening awe at the pure erotic beauty of your holy grail of womanhood. That sexual heat emanating humid from deep between your soft quivering thighs. That wonderful gentle fragrance of musk, so fabulously feminine, so fanning the flames of lewd and lascivious lust. That delicious velvet female flesh, soft and supple, warm and wet, oozing juicy and sweet, so welcoming of my mouth. That eternal decadent dance of lips and clit and tongue. That marvellous way you speak to me with your hands, silent on my head. That soulful wailing music spilling from your mouth, mewing and moaning and whimpering, urging my insatiable tireless tongue into a feasting frenzy. That delicious taste of your sweet nectar drenching my mouth, my lips, my tongue and my throat. That naked electricity pulsing in your precious pearl of pleasure, sparking feverish passion and jolting our flesh. That magical moment when 'you break, just like a little girl'. That moment of ultimate eroticism when you convulse in the violent squealing agony of orgasm. That enormously gratifying feeling of mutual rejoicing and celebration.
Bliss. Blessing. Amen. Ah, woman. Ah, the lingering taste of you.