When I am alone and far away, I close my eyes and imagine you here with me. You chuckled when I told you, months ago, that I was attempting to memorize your scent, the smell of you where neck meets shoulder, the place I like to bury my face when you make me blush. You didn’t know that even then I was preparing myself for this, cataloguing and filing away every detail, each sense memory.
When I am alone and far away, I am weak. I need. I want. I crave touch. Your hand resting on the nape of my neck, gently but firmly guiding me in public. Or your lips locked onto my nipple, eliciting a gasp that begs for more. Your teeth, your breath, warm and damp on my skin, whispering promises of sweet pain across my flesh. Your fingers, exploring and opening me, pressing a delicious rhythm into my wetness. Your eyes, laying me bare in a way no clothing could cover. My body, under yours, undulating and writhing and urging you faster, deeper, harder.
When I am alone and far away, I curl myself around these memories, clutching them tightly to my belly, letting them comfort me in empty rooms and strange cities. I re-live the first kiss, hand on my jaw, so deliberate, the feeling of being claimed for at least that moment. I savor the first orgasm again and again. Mine, yours, ours. I give myself another, in honor of you.
When I am alone and far away, I smile and flirt with strangers, knowing none of them are my size. I feel the lust rolling off of them and wait for it to crash against my shores. It flatters, and fails. Convince me you could own me, overpower me, I want to shout. Show me you know what you’re getting into, that you’re up for the challenge. I’m easy, but I’m not easy; why is that so difficult for them to grasp? It only took you a hand on my throat.