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What is Love?

Contemplating...
What is Love?

To some it means never having to say you're sorry,
But I don't subscribe to
Catch phrases.
Not from books or movies, at least.

Is it a great romance,
A journey of two people
Through life,
As partners?

Is it the depth of obligation
Felt between friends,
The "I am always there for you,"
That is reciprocated
And which goes without saying.

Why am I asking myself
This question?

In fairness, I often ask
The same question
Not prompted by any specific
Thing or feeling
Or Person.

I'm just thinking.
A man is allowed to do that
Or so I am told.

Maybe I am over-thinking.
Maybe all my deliberations
Are just my way of
Justifying what I am feeling.

Or justifying what I want to do.

I want to do all sorts of things,
Because they will make her smile.
Yes, they will make me smile too,
But maybe love is wanting someone else to
Smile first.

I want my hands to slide
Down the front of her jeans
And into her panties,
And to find the warmth and wetness
Of her pussy,
As my fingers dance around her clit
And as the fragrance of her arousal
Wafts up to me
As I inhale her scent.

I want my hands to make her cum,
Nothing subtle about it,
Just to bring her off,
So that she says to herself
That this is a lot more fun
Than masturbating alone.

Maybe love means wanting to
Make her cum?

I want my tongue to lick spirals around
Her nipples,
Flicking her nipples,
Leaving evaporating trails
Of my saliva on her breasts,
As she wriggles under my touch,
As she feels a direct link between
Her nipples and her clit,
And the wetness below simply flows and
Makes her squirm.

Maybe love means wanting to
Make her pussy very, very wet?

I want to turn her around,
With her ass directly in front
Of my face as I kneel behind her,
And pull her pants and panties down
With one quick yank of both hands,
And have her naked ass in front of me.

I want her to bend forward
And see a small, puckered brown star
In front of me,
And I want my tongue to lead my face
Toward that target,
And I want to explore her full and round
Buttocks with my hands
As my tongue probes her anally.

Anally. So clinical. Should I say I want to rim her?
Words are so awkward
Sometimes,
And really, all I want to do
Is please her any way I can.

And yes, I want to taste her from behind
Especially if she enjoys it.

Maybe love means a rim job
And a firm tongue in her asshole?

I want to stand up behind her,
And drop my pants,
And position my hardness at the entrance
To the damp pink corridor that I see
As she bends over in front of me.

I want to penetrate her tightness,
Stretch her walls, lubricating my shaft
With her arousal.

I want to thrust.
I want her to shove herself backward
Impaling herself deeper on to my
Cock.
That's what she calls it. I say hardness or shaft
Or manhood...
But it's a cock.

The same cock that will flood her pussy
When I cum inside of her.

Maybe love means fucking her
Doggy style?

Or is love the part of fucking her from behind that has me
Watching her full breasts swaying to the
Rhythm of my cock, sliding in and out
Of her?

Or is love cumming inside her pussy,
And then bending down to lick her clean,
Tasting our two sets of juices intermingled?

What is love?

Is it a poem written to her as I think about
All of the ways we can join each other
Intimately?

Or is it simply knowing that
Intimacy is not just a four letter word?

Which word is that?
I think...
Fuck?
Love?
Which word?

Maybe love is typing my latest
E-mail to her with one hand,
While my other hand strokes myself
As a webcam captures my cumshot
For her.

Maybe love is the wrong word to use
Right now,
And maybe there is a better word after all.

Nice.

Oh, that is just me watching the cumshot video
One more time
Before sending it to her so that
She can see what she inspires in me.

No, nice isn't the word I was looking for,
And maybe love is just the only word
We have that encompasses
The whole wide range of experience and feelings.

And actions.

Maybe love is just an action, after all,
And even if I can't define it,
With every stroke and lick and thrust,
I am expressing it.
With every word and poem and feeling
I am conveying it.
With every desire and want,
I am living it.

Maybe love is what I've been doing all along.

I am just thinking.

A man is allowed to do that
Once every so often.

Or so I am told.
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