Interracial Erotica -
He's Just a Crush
By Rebecca Davis Keller
Published on October 17, 2010
A poem inspired by all the beautiful men that flash across my computer screen practically on a daily basis. 

He's Just a Crush

Oh, he is sooo hot!

What I wouldn't do to make him mine!

Mmm, mmm, mmm...

He is a fine specimen of the human male.  The image before me displays his body at its best, strong, virile and oozing sex.  He is just the right height and his body is just the right size.  His meticulous care of his assets tells me he knows he is desired.    

He has a face that could have only been made by a master sculptor but is actually the ideal pairing of his parent’s genes.  His smile says I’m the most wonderful man in the world.  His dusky eyes beckon me from the screen mesmerizing me with his lusty gaze. 

His tenor voice flows from the speakers and over my ears like silk drawn over my skin.  Every word he speaks seems to be aimed at me. 

Do I want him?  Oh, yes more than anything! 

Do I fantasize about his hands and mouth on my body?  Most definitely!  Only he has the power to bring me unimaginable pleasure.   

If I could really make him mine, would I? Oh no! It would spoil everything!

He is just a crush, after all. 

In my mind he is funny, charismatic and loving.  He is with me all day and all night.  He goes with me wherever I go and stays in when I stay in.  He likes the foods I like and introduces me to new and exciting ones.  He thinks I am funny and laughs at my jokes.  And when we talk he listens to what I have to say. He does whatever I ask of him without complaint and does it exactly like I ask the first time.     

We hardly ever fight.  But when we do, oh we make up in the most wonderful way.  He brings me flowers and showers me with gifts on special occasions and sometimes for no reason at all.  And his compliments make my heart skip a beat.  He has yet to disappoint me.

When he touches my body he loves me the way I am, lumps, bumps, rolls and all.  He tells me he can’t get enough of me.  And he IS the best kisser in the world.

It is his face I see as I indulge in a moment of self gratification.

It is his hands, his mouth, his body that I imagine touching, kissing, riding me as I caress my way towards the zenith of satisfaction. 

It is his name that I scream out when I have reached the apex of my ecstasy. 

He has the face and body that I crave to have in my arms.  He is the perfect one for me at this moment.  But alas he is just an image that I project my desire onto. 

One day it will be over for us. I will forget about him.  Most likely he will be replaced by another fine example of what I think the perfect man will be.  After all, isn’t variety the spice of life?

It’s ok though, because in the end he is just my crush.