If I were honest, would you still respect me?

If I were honest, would you still like me?

If I were honest, should I care?

If I were honest, I would tell you things that I’ve perhaps only convinced myself you think, as well, but actually don’t. Do you?

If I were honest, I would tell you how I long for skin. How my eyes glaze at the thought of glistening ripples of flesh gleaming with my kiss.

I would tell you how I yearn for the throb of passion and the tingle of excitement. For the breathless scratches on my back and my teeth at your neck. If I were honest, I would tell you how I want to look deeply into your eyes as they lose focus in moments of light.

But if I were honest, would I still be a gentleman?

If I were honest, I would tell you how I lay awake staring at nothing but seeing everything of you. Every crevice and crease and freckle and hair. I would tell you how jealousy burns my veins that the inner pulse of your pleasure was not mine alone to love forever. If I were honest, I would tell you how I am distracted daily by the quickening beat of a hardening desire for your nakedness—to do with what I wish.

But if I were honest, would you still smile at me?

If I were honest, I would tell you how I would lay you down gently, bare to me. How I would kiss your arms, each finger, your toes, your knees, your thighs, my tongue tracing our names inside them, my hands parting them. How I would continue my dance on your skin until we were alchemists with our liquid spirits. If I were honest, I would tell you how I would love you again and again and again, until you begged me to stop. And I would love it.

But if I were honest, would you still love me?

If I were honest, I would tell you how I want you to watch me jump at your touch. For you to see me and use me as I wish to be used. I would tell you how I want to find a vulnerability beyond nakedness and to stay there for as long as we can. If I were honest, I would tell you how I want to find new heights of heaven and for us to find them at the exact. same. time. Breathe.

But if I were honest, would I be a hypocrite?

If I were honest, I would tell you that I want the cruder things. The quick and the dirty. The messy, the fast and the enthralled. I would tell you that I want videos of your perfection so that I can selfishly feel like I have a part of you, even when I don’t. If I were honest, I would tell you that I want to excite you in a way that melts you and leaves you in shivers of anticipation, panting for what we can’t have yet.

But if I were honest, would you be disgusted?

If I were honest, I would tell you how I dream of spending hour after unending hour listening to you talk and doing my best to distract you. I would tell you how you would pause occasionally to inhale deeply, your body thrumming with the remnants of my touch, to continue talking only to be reduced to tense silence and breathlessness and quivers moments later. If I were honest, I would tell you how I want to, quite simply, enjoy you while you shake in my arms, my hands in your hair.

But if I were honest, would you listen without judgement?

If I were honest, would I be saying what you think too? Or what you despise?

If I were honest, would I lose more than I could gain?

If I were honest, would I wish I had been silent?

If I were honest, would you say something?

Or, if I were honest, would you pretend I hadn’t been?

If I were honest, would you be?

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Author: Andy Charrington

Image: Flickr/Rosalia Toledo Toledo

Editor: Travis May