All my fantasies start with you.

There’s the one where you’re arched over the faux fur ottoman in a supported back bend, my face buried enthusiastically between your legs.

There’s the one where I softly kiss your left inner thigh until you fall asleep. My bent fingers caress and hover ‘til you’re spent, never knowing whether you were satisfied by me, a warm spring breeze, or a maverick dream.

There’s the one on the subway: wicked flirty grins; passengers all around us. You move forward--an old man anticipates, a young woman blushes--I close my eyes and wait for your kiss. Before I feel it, I trickle-come as your index finger grazes my pinky on the chrome pole between us.

There’s the one where you lie still on top of me, my cock in your cunt. Our mouths press and slide, and lick and bite, until our lips bruise, tear, crack, and rupture.

There’s the one where I sit in your kitchen and grow old in real time as I watch you cook meal after meal. There are just two chairs at the table and it thrills me that it truly does not matter which one I sit in. We share everything.

There’s the one where I meet your mom and impress her with my manners and wicked sense of humor. She thinks I’m out of earshot when she says to you, “Your father would have liked him.”

There’s the one where you cry while reading my first book.

There’s the one where your mouth, a daily alarm clock on my prick, causes me to become a Morning Person.

There’s the one where I don’t have to fantasize anymore because we trumble to bed together each night, exhaust one another to sleep, and wake, entangled, every morning.