Pushing my hair over my shoulder, I inadvertently run my fingers down my neck, brushing against my collarbones, and a warm wave of memories, desire, and pleasure runs through my body. No, he never does that - our desire when we meet is too strong for such unobtrusive foreplay - but for some reason it is this reflex of my body that my memory associates with him, as, indeed, many others, and it is so attractive with its delicate, sharp sweetness, like the taste of caramel-mint ice cream. This chain of associations, memories and desires is impossible to break - although I have never tried, why would I? I close my eyes and imagine his hands unbuttoning my dress, his fingers touching my breasts, freeing me of all excess fabric. They squeeze my nipples, and they instantly harden, and I feel the growing wetness below, under the lace of my underwear. Then his lips encircle one nipple, then the other... And I want to press him to me, I stroke his hair, stretch my whole body toward him, arching to meet him... I inhale the growing scent of desire and anticipate its taste on my tongue. In these moments, I throw all self-control, all thoughts and fears at my feet, along with the rest of my clothes, and I go crazy with the feeling that now I am entirely his, and he is free to do with me whatever he wants. He presses his hips against mine, and I sense exactly what he wants now. I feel his tense member under the fabric of his pants, I imagine how smooth and hard it is, I desperately want to feel his taste and my taste on him, after we finally connect and he pulls out of me - only when I'm very wet and I have an unbearable urge to caress him with my tongue. When he pulls down my lace and touches the head of his cock to my wet, hot lips, I respond with a soft moan and a thrust of my hips toward him. I want him to be deep, to slide inside me quickly, to fill the void burning with desire, pushing apart the tight walls, rubbing the million nerve endings inside me with every movement. It's so hot there, and only he can turn this unbearable heat into pleasure. With the entire surface of the excited tissue lining me inside, I feel our contact: the velvety hardness of his penis, the elastic softness of the head, the wet, close sliding of us against each other. It's all tenderness—ours, his, special, unlike anything else, the kind we so lack when we're somehow apart, and the kind we crave when everything falls into place and we're left alone. The tastes of this tenderness somehow suddenly come, like the feeling of strands of hair brushed from your neck, or like the way I, lost in thought, touch my lips or nipples in the shower—and then don't want to leave. This hunger cannot be satisfied until he is near. Only he can touch me like this, caress me, expose me, drive me to frenzy and a burning, mind-blowing shudder. But this sensation does not burden me in the least; it is wonderful, and it makes me feel very warm... The longer it is with me, the more often I almost feel the heat and pleasure that our imminent meeting will bring. The Creator had a lot of fun, first creating us so that every woman is capable of sex with every man, and then decreeing that true, deep, and intense pleasure isn't delivered by every sexual act. My friend likes to use the analogy of a lock and key: you can try to open the bukvoeb.run lock with a pin, but only the right key will do it as if with a snap of the fingers. The beauty of this analogy is that it can be expanded: a door knocked down with a running shoulder can be considered open, but in this case it can hardly be assumed that the person opening it was thinking about the door - rather about the result. I braid my hair, trying not to make any unnecessary movements, to avoid being drawn back into the embrace of my heated fantasies. Then I run my fingers from my shoulder, down my collarbone, to my neck—I couldn't resist. I throw a thin cotton shirt over my naked body, which would be indecent if anyone could see it—but I'm alone here, and instead of prying eyes, I'm accompanied by the late evening, the chirping of cicadas, the deep starry sky, and the much-desired evening coolness. The hot wind from the desert has given way to a cool breeze from the ocean, hidden by the jagged edges of ancient, time-worn mountains. Thousands of stars are scattered across the black sky—southern, unfamiliar, yet as distant as the familiar constellations of the Northern Hemisphere. And they should be treated the same way: admired, immersed in them, scrutinized, and made a wish when one of them, like a piercing arrow, falls across the sky. I smile at this thought, and seem to completely forget about the sands surrounding me, the cries of nocturnal animals roaming around the camp in search of food, and others - not wanting to become it, the desired coolness of the dry air, caressing the skin penetratingly, softly and to the point of goosebumps. I stare into the blackness of the southern sky, minute by minute, to see one falling meteor and make a short, but most important wish for me now: that the one I love makes me happy. ...and then I smile for a long time at the shimmering starry suspension, thinking that in the thousands of years of life of these stars, never before has a wish made to them been fulfilled so quickly.