A warrior in my doorway

I like doorways. Entrances, hallways, stairwells. In-between places. The preludes to a bed. The places that we don't quite make it out of because we are entranced with each other. Fumbling with each others' clothes, because I can't take another step without my face in his neck, inhaling him. Our hands drifting over each other's bodies, remembering. All a tremble with breath heavy. Right here, standing, as I've pinned him against the wall, I want to feel the hard bulge in his pants between my thighs.

Right now, there is an archetype in my doorway. His whole body is unbelievably hard. This is a man who uses his body for a living. Every square inch of him must be impenetrable. He is male personified. My hands glide over all his bulges, and I notice something. The touch he responds to most is softness. Feather light. This man, who sells being hard, is craving my gentleness. This is good. The men I respond to are like this. They are hard enough that I can allow myself to be soft, softer than soft. I can let go of control, because I trust that they can take the reins. I need this. Sometimes. Very much. I love being the softness that he is drawn to. This well of suppliance. All things wet and delicate.

We stay in the hallway for a long time. I'd be happy to fuck right there. Once the bed enters the picture, all spontanaeity dissolves for me. There's a destination, and of course there is, but I've always been about possibilities. And somehow, when we linger where we're not supposed to be, or where things haven't been delineated yet, there's more of them.

Because today, and now, and tonight, I want to stay open to the idea that I have no answers to anything. That every moment is the portal to everything unknown. And that that's okay. This is a place I need to remain in.