The Touch
To touch the object of desire, to feel it's shape and size, to sense the flow of life within makes my blood pulse hotly through my own.

An instrument to be drawn from its sheath and wheedled to its full stature, strength and sensuousness.

The strong, young heart pumps rapidly till throbbing pressure stretches its measure and breadth.

Of all of that, the touch is gentle. The stokes flow slowly, smoothingly, as one would caress a bee so as to not provoke a sting.

It is to touch the mind, fill it with thoughts, anticipation, of wonderous events to come.