I cannot lie.

I have a vision of a clean and crimson accented
apartment (home), a room that is warm and tasteful.

And there I am, waiting for her to get home, in a dress with a flaring empire waist
like some sort of housewife.
And as my girl enters I am reminded of her charm.
Short-haired
and with a gentle, but firm hand,
will caress the round of my ass as I stand at the stove,
slaving over some hearty meal.
But I won’t let anything but a “surprised” gasp escape my lips.

“Honey, I’m home,” she says.
Oh, I know.

Denying the sexual tension as we sit across the table from one another,
even to ourselves,
as we devour our food.
And we think about devouring each other.

I wonder if she’ll taste like apple pie.

“I bought some fresh flowers for the bedroom.” I said, deliciously.
“That’s nice, dear.” She’ll respond.
“How was work?”
“Like always.”

And after I’ve done the dishes like I’m supposed to,
cleaned myself up and primped,
I’ll find her in our bed
ready to consummate
handy with never ending libido.