Out of my dreams...

...and into the hush.

It’s one of those mornings when vivid dreams, a breath of warm spring air, birds twittering and squirrels romping in the trees combine to send the urges screaming hot and needy through my veins. The whores are moaning like they have not moaned in a while. Nerves burn to be stroked and flesh aches to be caressed and Eros taunts me at the edge of thought turning everything to throbbing pink and red until the simplest and most innocent thoughts taken on carnal implications. Some portion of this torments on waking every morning and can be quickly and easily dealt with, but this morning there is no relief, and I twist and burn on the spit of desire, a hungry void deep inside that will not be fobbed off with work or a quick, wet fumble. The void needs to be filled with something substantial: the slap of sweaty flesh against flesh, the tingling stroke of roughened skin along soft, silky folds, the yeasty scent of swelling need and the insistent primal cry of triumphant satiation.