Fascinated with the body and skin, completely fascinated.

I hate the smell of cigarettes but somehow I love the taste of your mouth

burdge:

gouache doodle of 2D because i needed a break from oil paint [x]

Timestamp: 1398007814

burdge:

gouache doodle of 2D because i needed a break from oil paint [x]

11,845 plays
  • Trackname:

    Cardiac Arrest
  • Artist:

    Bad Suns

I don’t even like wine, I just can’t say no to alcohol.

Intimacy with strangers

I move my hips slowly and seductively according to the beat. We look each other up and down with heavy eyes. You make your way towards me. You either introduce yourself, sweetly rest your hand on the bottom of my back and ask to dance or - you press the front of your body against the back of mine and mimic my swaying movement. You begin to caress my body, tracing its shape. We both breath deeply from the satisfaction of feeling skin on skin. You turn me around forcefully yet rhythmically. You pull me closer and our faces connect quicker than the attraction of magnets. The movement of our lips echo our dancing, pressing against each other. Softer, than harder and closer. Our tongues inter-twine. Our lips slowly draw apart but our faces remain close. We intimately stare into each other’s eyes as if we know each other solely and completely. Our bodies resume the swaying movement except, the lower parts of our bodies connect more than the rest. We sway more seductively, more intensely, occasionally moving up and down - dry fucking. My hands stroking your neck and the back of your head, tangling my fingers in your hair, pressing my lips against your skin till I get to your neck and bruise you with my mouth. Your hands shuffle from my ass, to my thighs, to my breasts and eventually up my skirt. Repeat. Repeat. The comfort created from our bodies becomes confused with the comfort of two souls. Eventually I have to go, or I don’t enjoy it anymore, or you have to go, or you get bored of me . One last kiss. One last chance to touch. Then we part ways, we become strangers again. Left with only memories of our synthetic intimacy, our names (if we exchanged them), the feeling of the other’s body. Then we become numbers to each other and the description of “we made out once”.