Community Theatre

I like to see the strain of you pitching a tent.  I like to think of the all-of-the-sudden need for more room that is your erect cock inside your jeans.  Give it some air.  Let me watch.

In our brains are tales of hairy palms or warnings of blindness ("You'll shoot your eye out.") and we are each fed the lies that about the sanctity of every sperm.  The shame you feel is normal.   Embarrassed.  Wrong.  Naughty.  Dirty.  Rude.  Excited.

Something about the movement is mesmerizing.  No bedroom eyes. Mine are wide open for this display.  The way you hold it yourself -- not even the most experienced lover can know precisely how firm a grip to use.  Up and back, sometimes over the head.  What are you thinking?  Probably different with me watching than when you're alone.  

A rhythm.  In your mind, sometimes this is a mouth or fucking, but right now, you are alone with your hand and my laser beam stare.  What kinds of things would you do if I weren't on the first row?  Some things too personal for an audience?  Up and back, fist encircling more tightly.  Up and back again.  Until:  ...delight.  

I won't drag this out with a standing ovation calling for bows and throwing roses.  I'll find a sock and leave you to mop up.