Autosexual | Part Three

I can stare at you for hours as you brush your hair while singing jazz music that plays smoothly on your gramophone-designed radio, and all I can think about is my touch – every single fingerprint etched into your skin.

It’s become a ritual I’ve timed my days around so I can witness you engulf yourself in your own saxophone performance in your hair brush. You are my erotic, amorous, obscene obsession.  I’m sure you know that, don’t you?

There are so many quirks I like about you. I like the way your nose twitches like a bunny exactly five seconds before you sneeze.  I want the perfume of our escapades to become etched into your nose after.

I’m enamored by how your tongue visits the corners of your mouth whenever you’re deep in thought. I want every taste, every scratch, every moment of our coition to be etched into your mind.

I indulge in branding you with my devotion. The mere exploration of your body is my greatest achievement.

Somedays I can’t bear the thoughts and desires that linger in the seconds before we meet again.

I’m the only one with you in your reflection. Always. We are one.

Even now as I stand here, lost in the depths of your eyes, willingly exposed in front of this mirror; I begin to feel the thrill of this self-love addiction.

I am me, and so are you, and there’s no lover better than that.


Neena, oh Neena. What a beautiful girl we are. 

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