I want to have sex with you.
I want to throw you down onto the sheets and lie on top of you. I want to kiss you all over your body, making every inch of your skin tingle with expectation. I want to brush you with my stubble, tickle you with my fingers, fuck you with my eyes.
I don't want to do the laundry. I don't want to sort the kitchen cupboard. I don't want to change the sheets or plan for work. I don't even want to water plants unless that refers to the stage I've reached in Luigi's Mansion 2. I don't want to do any of those things.
You. I want to do you. I want to lick your pussy lips until they are soaking wet. I want to stimulate your clit with the tip of my tongue until it throbs with every beat of your heart. I want to feel myself growing harder as we kiss hungrily, the anticipation building.
As opposed to waiting for e-mails which aren't going to arrive. Wanting friends to contact me when they're busy working or away on sojourns to more exotic places of this fair isle. Filling in forms for various official organisations. I don't really want to do any of that.
What I want is to have you spread your legs in front of me. I want to penetrate your vagina with the very tip of my penis. I want to pull my foreskin back and slide the whole thing into you. I want to feel your inside walls contract, sense them tight around my shaft, warm wet pulses sending shivers through my body. I want to move inside you and make you grasp my back and cry out for more. I want to give you pleasure. I want to have sex with you.
That's what I want to do.
I don't want to make dinner either. But I suppose I can start with that.