Sue Sylvester, Glee
***
We might not be meant to share a love scene.
Ever.
So I decided to imagine one and not let it be just a project of my imagination but make it real by putting it on a blank page that will loose it's innocence by the ink transcribing my thoughts upon it. My thoughts about you, to be exact. Thoughts that call you, my dear, even though you can not understand them from all the noise that happens in the world.
I will make the scene magical, romantic, heartbreakingly erotic because that is the way I would like to be consumed by your simplicity, your heaviness, your smile.
(I can feel your penis entering my anus.)
You make dinner for me so you give me time to relax, to get used to being so close to you, being alone with you. You support my comfort by being interested in me, by smiling at my jokes, keeping the beer flowing. You make me believe you want me to be there. You ask me to stay.
And now I see.
My ignorance? My youth. Can one blame oneself for ones youth?
It breaks my heart nevertheless. Even though it might not have happened the way I am able to see it now, be it the only way I can see it now, through my sorrow and frustration.
You show me to your bed and you stop. Looking at me as if I am standing nude before your eyes. Looking back at you, shivering. My knees are weak with desire.
I feel your fingers sliding down my collar bone. I close my eyes and sigh.
You make time stop
and wait
while you enjoy every inch my skin can offer.
How can I be alone, here, in someone else's bed. Sleep as if everything is fine when fine is as far away as fine can be. Tiredness I feel.
The feelings I have for you are exhausting me.
I let you touch me. I enjoy the attention I receive. I soak it like a sponge that has seen no water in a century, like sand in an hourglass. I have been craving for your touch long after we have finished our numberless cigarettes.
(Penetrating and seeking pleasure.)
