Dancing in my Room

Your thumb gracing my lips,
chin quivers.
Sure, the muscles are sore,
but that’s not why I feel so weak.
Fingers slip into mouth.
I can feel your index on my tongue and it’s heaven.
Saliva, slick, coats your glove-coated digit
and if I wasn’t being peered at by her
I’d blush so many shades of red,
I’d look the physical manifestation of embarrassed lust.

If only you knew,
if you could hear my ramblings
my incoherent murmurs
that dance in my mind like contemporary lovers
always twirling,
always listing,
always dreaming.

If you could hear,
I’d die of shame and I know why.
My ramblings and murmurs can only be blamed
on silly virginal dreams.
See,
you’re the only man who has ever,
ever,
touched my face,
my mouth,
my skin.
me.

The palm of your hand rests on the crest of my cheek,
now red with frustration,
and she asks me if I’m alright.
Silent nods,
it’s all I can muster.
Sure, there are metal clamps and picks in my mouth,
but I could conceivably speak
I just don’t trust my voice.

He’s British and scrumptious.
He’s my mother’s age.
Married.
Has a son my sister’s age.

It’s just silly virginal musings.
Just silly wonderlust and heated cheeks.
His hand on my face,
on my mouth,
in my mouth,
oh how I wish I could turn my mind off.
Just so I could stop thinking like that,
thinking of what I would do
if he ripped his gloves off,
pushed the hygienist out of the room,
knocked down the photos of his family and just…

I can’t.
It’s not right.

Is this what it’s come down to?
Lusting after my dentist?
Frustrated.
Pathetic.

I’ll never forget his gloves.