Taste Me Like You Mean It
I lick the juice before I suck. Let it stain my mouth like a secret I’m not done keeping. She presses herself against my lips and I don’t devour—I seduce.
I peel the orange
like I want it to come.
Slow.
Thumb sliding under the skin
like I know exactly where
to press.
How hard.
How long.
Until it parts for me
on its own.
She’s dripping
before I even bite.
Juice down my hand,
down my wrist,
mouth watering
not from hunger,
from patience.
You can’t rush this.
Not if you want her
to open for real.
I don’t eat fruit.
I worship it.
I don’t tear it apart.
I make it bloom.
She’s life.
And life doesn’t want to be handled.
She wants to be tasted.
With tongue.
With teeth.
With time.
I lick the juice
before I suck.
Let it stain my mouth
like a secret I’m not done keeping.
She presses herself against my lips
and I don’t devour—
I seduce.
You think she doesn’t notice?
That you speed through her
like she’s something to get done?
She does.
That’s why she stops showing up.
That’s why she dries up in your hands.
You don’t take your time.
You take what’s easy.
You fuck her like a task.
Then wonder why you feel empty
when you finish.
But when I slow down,
when I kiss every second
like it might shatter,
she gives me everything.
She begs to be tasted.
She spreads herself open
in the smallest moments—
steam from a cup,
wind on my neck,
her voice saying
don’t interrupt me this time.
I don’t.
I listen like I’m inside her.
Like every syllable
is another layer of skin
I get to peel back
with nothing but breath.
Foreplay is how I live.
How I cut fruit.
How I talk to women.
How I let life
grind against me
without asking it
to be anything but fucking real.
So yeah,
I peel the orange
like I peel time.
Slow.
Hungry.
Present.
And when it breaks open
and coats my fingers in proof
that I didn’t rush—
I smile.
Because this is god.
Right here.
Juice on my chin.
Hands filthy.
No climax in sight.
Just her.
Still open.
Still wet.
Still waiting
for me to keep going.
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