Trichophilia: Three Roads to Paradise

Trichophilia

     At first sight, I slipped and fell into the deep chasm of fantasy.  I was instantly intrigued by his big...curly...splendorous mane. He made my fingers hungry to touch.  He made my nostrils thirsty to inhale the scent from his scalp.  I wanted to get lost in all of his kinks.  I wanted him to firmly tug at mine.

Dreams, oftentimes, are premonitions

      In the shade of the midnight hour, I found my hands caught in his living web.  Entangled by his limbs.  Tongue tied by his.  Trapped.  Bound by my own free will to stay static.  To savor every second, to mourn the passing of every minute while conceiving another hour of passion.

     With my fists full of hair, I couldn't keep my lips from his.  Pulling his glory backwards, I discovered a beautiful face.  Eyes closed.  Lips parted.  Eyebrows arched in agony.

What have I stumbled upon?

Hirsutophilia

     Time passes.  Life progresses.  This time, we are warmed by The Evening Sun piercing its way into his bedroom.  Apparently, mouths are also used to converse, to exchange ideas.  I was amazed to find that he travels the world boundlessly.  He frequents Brazil.  He speaks five tongues.  I am in awe of the man I didn't know until recently.

Giving me a taste of a German love song,

whispering it gently in my ear;

I feel the soft abrasion of his five o' clock shadow on my cheek. 

Alongside my sigh slips a confession.

     Demonstrating his stories of travels, he sails to the southern coasts of my ankles.  Sliding his stubble against my skin, I couldn't compose myself as he coasted up my legs.  Deliberately.  Patiently.  Thoroughly.  His face toured every area of my flesh.  His lips charted every erogenous zone.  My backside.  My inner thighs.  That spot above the right side of my pelvis.  Weaving together my moans, pants and whimpers; he composed an anthem to celebrate his new territory.

I've became a foreign native of my own body

A new land surrounds my former home

Where am I?

Acomoclitism

          He inspires me.  He propels me to secure my passport.  To take the world by its horns and turn it over.  Parting his globes, I was amazed to find the sweetest place on Earth.  Undiscovered.  Untouched.  Yet beautifully bare.  A pretty, pink paradise winks back at me.  Tipping him upside down, I struggle to squeeze my tongue inside.  My fingers upsets his balance.  Running my tongue through his passages, I'm thankful for the chance to lick at his entrance.  To lap at his closed door is blessing enough.

Some destinations are only reserved for future endeavors.

Some doors are only unlocked by the keys of time.

But I can say for certain,

I've tasted the sweet secret on the other side.

Perhaps I could be the first to plant his flag...

“Not’gon cut my garden, not’gon cut my hair” by Ian Cole