Cream

Cream turns me on.

Luscious, smooth, thick, thick cream. Dollops of it. Bowlfuls of it, oozing, running, flowing. A lusty indulgence, a sinful luxury in a non-fat, low-carb, asparatame-flavored world, a plethora of tasty sensuality poured out and consumed hungrily.

Even the word cream is lustrous. It lives quietly in the mouth, a breathy utterance that ends in a smile. It evokes the texture and taste and the gentle, velvety richness.

You know how much I love cream, how I want to be creamed up, over and on. You indulge me in this. You love it too.

You seduced me with poetry on cream-textured paper, enticed me with your cream-coloured tie. At dinner you fed me chocolate pudding, but it was just an excuse to pour thick, yellowish, Jersey cream all over the dark, sticky sweetness. I licked the spoon and laughed.

Today you are making love to me in a cream-coloured room.

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