CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I hate making small talk. I don’t want to discuss the weather, or last night’s TV, or the football results. I don’t want to hear a blow by blow account of car journey in rush hour, or how long it took for the bus to arrive, or how rude the driver was. I’m not interested in listening to the rules of the latest fad diet, or how many steps the Fitbit recorded, or whether it is better to be an M&S size 16 or a Next one.

I want deep. I want meaningful. I want pregnant pauses and comfortable silences.


Today, I want to spend time with you. And, honestly, I’d happily take whatever I could get. If that meant listening to you read aloud a shopping list, I’d do it, avidly. If it meant throwing lightweight conversational openers into the mix, and watching you bat them back and forth with another, I’d toss away, merrily. If I was only able to be with you for the length of time it took to drink a cappuccino and say what I thought of last year’s X Factor contestants, I’d sip slowly and make up opinions, but I would be there until the last bubble of milky foam had dried on the inside of my cup.

When I’m hungry for you, even a tiny morsel of small talk can help to satiate me. The words become inconsequential as I feed off my other senses. Watching you as you speak. Listening to the rhythm of your breathing. Hoping for a hug hello, and goodbye. Pressing my face into your shoulder and inhaling your scent: long, slow, deep. Tasting the chemicals of your presence: I know we are compatible because of this.

So I’ll take your small talk, and feed it to my big hunger. And should we have the time to go deeper, longer, to find the point of silence, I will show you the dark cavern where that hunger lives, and invite you to stay a while.

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