The Impulsion of Candor

You can directly direct me any which way you like; face down in the robe-covered, towel-padded carpet or however. Suits you. Not that beating around the bush has ever been a problem of ours, just a problem of mine, post-coital, "Um, you don't mind that I need .. um .. you know .. for you to be ... like, the boss of me?" I just need to abdicate mine, once in awhile, and objectify myself, even, too. To become: your lovely, sweaty, Eviscerated. Because nothing else trumps the browbeats of the mean quotidian streets of our (multitudinous) lives like that, like that. Hoodwinked and whip-strapped and flash-burned and tequila-drunk and the mind boggles; at the many varieties of sex two people can have, using only each other (and some common household materials.) And it makes me feel unmitigated and unrepentant joy in the absolute center of my dopaminergic system to know that I can pretty much count on fucking you for the rest of your life. No, no, its okay. I would rather go last, anyway. I think.