A Wendy Peffercorn

I want you in a visceral, almost primordial way. My stomach demands you. When I lean in to kiss your neck, your smell ransacks my body. It's a violent coup. I surrender. My logic surrenders.

I could never say no. 

You paint my floors with your bra, jeans, and shoes. Your body makes me dumb. My mouth knows better than to speak. My lips are only for kissing. Language has no place here.     

Our sex is what married couples fantasize about. It's unearthly. Brutal and vicious, yet buried under care. The world is quiet after we finish. Deference is due. Infinite repeatability. Over and over again. I'll get tired of this when I get tired of breathing. We're sexual gladiators; the bed is our coliseum.