The head on you

They suggested I write something about 50 things I like about you, but first things first, I don’t think there are 50 things that I like about you. Much less 25. I’m not sure I could even stretch it to 15. I could probably aim for 10 but I don’t think I’ll even manage that.

Why, you ask, can I only think of a handful of things I like about you?

You, oh special one. You Adonis, whom I’ve fancied the ass off for a fair few summers. Well it’s fairly simple. I don’t know a whole pile about you and nor do I want to. I do know however, that the head on you is fairly fecking divine! I have spent far too many hours imagining that head on my pillow, all over my bed in fact, at night, in the morning, in between. I have squandered many precious moments contemplating what it would be like to have you here beside me. I have worn you out more times than I care to admit. My musings are often a cause for confession.

So, is it purely sexual you ask?

No. Sexual would mean that I actually want to ‘bagsey the ride off ya’ but I don’t. It would mean that I lust after you and aspire to having your lovely head in my bed. I genuinely don’t. It’s mental, pure and simple. It’s a total work of the mind, just like fiction. Uninhibited, unbridled, chaotic imagination. It’s like thinking about what you would do if you won the lotto – but in fact, you don’t actually play the lotto. That’s the case here.

You’ve a tasty head on you, and I have had many thoughts involving said head, but I don’t care enough to buy a ticket. Nor to play the game. There may be 50 things I’d like about you, but I don’t want to know.