Dear you, I can feel your hand slowly searching for my manhood. Its massaging the lump that is steadily growing between my legs and beneath my silk pajamas. You slowly start to remove my pajama bottoms by tugging at their crotch. Your hands brush down my hips then my thighs as you free me from the bondage of my clothing. Give us us free! Give us us free! Next is my shirt. With gentle kisses starting just above my exposed and erect penis and continuing up my torso, stopping momentarily at my chest to visit each nipple and pay it a proper greeting, then on to my neck, my chin, my ears and finally my lips. I don’t even realize that my shirt has been completely removed until you’ve stop kissing me, stop sharing the sweet fluids of you mouth with me, stopped hypnotizing me with yourself. I can tell you have been eating peppermints again. I love the flavor it creates when it mixes with the zest of you. It creates a special tangy spiciness that words can’t quite describe. I lay before you naked, at your mercy, to be done with as you will. I am your willing slave, waiting to carry out your every bidding. I pray that you ask me to please you sexually, to take you in my mouth or on the tip of my tongue or better still to enter your temple and make offerings at your ovarian alter. I close my eyes and anticipate what you will ask of me. But no request comes. I wait and still no request. More waiting. More silence. I open my eyes I find myself alone. Alone in my bed. Alone in my bed in pool of sweat and other fluids. You’ve done it to me again. You’ve invaded my dreams, invaded my mind, invaded my personal mental space. I can’t escape my many thoughts of you. I’ve only seen you once. But in my dreams I’ve seen you a million times, in a million ways, in a million settings. I have heard your voice but once, but I know it like the sound of my own, like sound of my mothers, like the sound of one I hear everyday or should I say every night. For every night you invade my dreams with your image, the image of a sensual angel finer than any of Hollywood’s airbrushed images and the sound of your voice, a sound sweeter than that of Nina Simone singing a duet with Cassandra Wilson while Coltrane and Miles play the melody. Sweeter than the sweetest taboo. The thought of you is inescapable. I am a captive of my lust. A lust for more than the physical. I’ve had wet dreams about us just sitting in green fields or on top of rolling hills or white sand beaches on blankets just talking about the meaning of life or the existence of fate or politics or whatever is on our minds to discuss at the time. No touching other that the meeting of our minds. I find your thought process so erotic. Sexier than lingerie or hot oils on your body or your body stark naked drenched in your sweat mixed with mine. I lust for your time, for your attention, for you affection. I lust for all that is you. But regrettably I cannot have you. I must be satisfied to only have my visions of you. My memories of my short time in the presence of ones of Gods truly great miracles of perfection. I only pray that the memories stay fresh and vivid until the next lifetime. That and that you too are a captive of your memories of me. Thinking of you eternally, The Captive Black Man (CBM).