I want to fulfill it.
I want to be everything to you, everything you’ve ever wanted, everything you’ve ever dreamed of, everything you’ll ever need.
You want me to fuck you from behind for hours? I want to do that to you, for you.
You want me to lick your pussy for days? I want to do that to you, for you.
You want me to fuck your face, to fill your mouth with my cock, until you gag? I want to do that to you, for you.
In days of yore, this was a handicap.
I was confused.
I thought you would want to tell me your fantasy, to have me fulfill it, that my receptivity to your fantasies was a strength.
But I misunderstood.
You wanted to fulfill my fantasy.
And we were caught, forever, in an endless loop.
“Tell me what you want?” I would say.
“I don’t know,” you would say.
Behind my openness, my eagerness, I was scared. Worse, I was cowardly. Rather than face my fears (my desire), I tried to hide behind yours.
What if what I wanted wasn’t what you wanted?
I might disappoint you. I might fail to please you. I might, god forbid, disgust you.
Now, I know what I want.
May I have it, please?