SIR LORD OF THE VIKINGS

You are, oh, so very hot. At least, in my mind. Though we haven’t met yet, we have talked. Chatted. Emoji, hearts on text clouds as a landmark of approval, and the way you have described yourself. Oh, are you good with words. I dream about your hair, dark blond and curly. I dream about your eyes: grey, dark blue at times. I dream about a body that likes to keep fit but not to the extreme. I wonder if I could take off your uniform one day, or would you rather strip it all off yourself, for me? I don’t need you to have a playroom, but I want you to be playful. While we listen to the beats we’ve shared, the ones that turn you on and mine, I am very aware that I’m smoothly crawling over to that sensitive phase, the one when my boiling point ignites. Not in search of danger, or ‘out of this world’ adventure, raw diamonds live among the ordinary, and that’s quite extraordinary. My fantasies are shaping, taking forms, defining and detailing, even though I’m yet to know who’s behind the secret door. Who’s this Mr. Sir Lord of the Vikings turning my mind and body on? Your words, clever; your conversation, smooth; and your attention, sublime. It is within my nature to trust, for I know about this tiny little troll that lives deep inside within this magic nurturing forest that has grown within my heart, seated and patiently waiting, holding a crimson velvet rope, attached to a shiny golden bell that will ring into my head should the moment come when I must wake up from the spell.

Sir Lord of the Vikings. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)