Willing but unable You have no idea, no idea how bad I wanna . . . I wanna, I wanna taste you, no. not that cliche erotic poetry type taste, I’m talking tasting so deeply that just watching my lips move, sends aftershocks through your body days after our encounter, but I’m unable. I wanna indulge in the type of foreplay reserved for longtime lovers searching for new possibilities. That upper echelon loving, you know . . . when you know every spot, every crevice, the exact amount of pressure, the perfect speed, that special angle, but again I’m unable. I wanna allow my animal instinct to consume me in the thralls of passion, pounding your flesh with the primitive precision of reckless abandon, feeding my ego with the sounds of aggression impassioned and the sweetest agony, but I am unable. I wanna see the facial transitions of love making, that preemptive uncertainty with loaded expectations, the pleasant surprise of package approval, that first lick of the lips and eye roll, the “yes, daddy that’s the spot” look, that over-the-shoulder look of complete surrender, the face seizure that can only be caused by orgasm, and finally the tranquil beauty of satisfaction. I am more than willing, but as I said before . . . I’m disabled, and unable to move from the neck down, but the saddest part of it all is that . . . I know you never imagine me the way I imagine you.