THIRST

He stands there, shirtless, smoking his "herbal" cigarette. His eyes darting back and forth, trying to sneak a peek at my kitchen window. I stare through the sheer curtain in sheer terror, feeling my walls crumbling down brick by brick, shards of my resistance falling away like a fart in a strong wind. I drop to the floor, my naked body shaking. Can he see me? Can he smell my moist scent? Can he hear my body calling with the graphic urgency of an R. Kelly song? Does he know I'm a birthday suit enthusiast? I peek over the kitchen table top and catch his searing gaze through the net. A tortured gasp escapes me as my eyes caress his shirtless musculature, every sinew knotted like a coiled snake, taught and glistening, ready to pounce. Beads of sweat drip from my every fold as his succulent lips curve seductively around his stimulant, stimulating us both and coating us with the smokey haze of desire. He walks towards my kitchen window, like a languid beast in the jungle, knowing he has his prey in his sights. He gives me one more glance, not seeing me but feeling my heat pulsating from every pore. Then he takes one last puff of his medicine and flicks it away with his long supple fingers. I watch in liquid dejection as the cure for my tortured loins walks away, free to devilishly taunt me yet again tomorrow.