confessions · penis · sexually frustrated

My type

I am gaga for authority figures


Think of me

It feels good to wish you happiness

I feel you push it right back to me

Like ping pong

Or a trampoline

Or the resistance of my mattress when I press against it

When I wish you happiness, I know you wish it for me, too

As you wander the world, looking for things to impress an artsy peace core chick,

Pause for a Melissa thing or two

Take a minute and miss me

I’m here, too

sexually frustrated

I cannot let on

“I don’t know how old you are, don’t take this the wrong way, but you are very wise,” he said to me, awkwardly confessing to me, in a way I’ve always known to mean: I want to fuck you and feel uncomfortable about it.

“It’s fine, I want to fuck you, too!” I wanted to shout back. I wanted to make him comfortable, let him know it’s mutual, let him into my head where I fawn over him, yet where I watch him whince when I tease him, overanalyze him: a symptom of my obsession, his quirks are all so cute to me.

He hasn’t let on yet that I am so warm to him. I can’t let on to him that I am so warm. I want him to know, we’re in the same place, with a wink or accidental bump, a physical connection of meaning. I want to jump him mid meeting. I will not jump him. I will not let on. I cannot let on.