When I can  not direct my body to release
appropriately   I resort to dreams of a handsome
boy, a ******* addict at a motel whose sole purpose
is to please me    and somewhere in the narrative he
falls deeply in love with my zestful spirit,
and so, I embrace him   and I rub against him,
but somewhere here, the whole thing becomes
quite maternal
and I cannot recognize him as the
****** object of my desires
  
that is when I begin to write of him,
the texture of his skin, the ice in his eyes, the veins on his neck,
the girth of his manhood as he
lowers himself unto me and looks at me
desperately as if I am the goddess
that will give him all the riches of earth.