Dear Diary,

Warning–if you wander down this particular rabbit hole, the material is a bit explicit. 

What I wanted was to spend July with your tongue between my thighs, dark hair tossed back as my mouth opened up to gasp your name, as I begged for you–now, now, now–as you slowly licked concentric circles around my breasts, reveling in delaying the moment when you slid inside and became mine, all mine.

What I wanted was to walk around your apartment naked while you mixed drinks, sampling and tantalizing and testing to see if you could still muddle a mint julep with my lips wrapped around your throbbing cock, to taste whiskey and sweat and swallow it all.

What I wanted was to ignore the world, to hide in the air conditioned cool dark of your place or mine, and re-connect with your body as if we had just met, all over again, and to forget everyone else for a long while.

Instead it is nearly the end of July and I do not know where the time has gone, only that there hasn’t been enough of it, and none of those little fantasies came true.

And now I am packing for a conference, and when I return, my vacation will officially be over, although truthfully this right now is the end. It ends with neat rows of folded underwear and sensible shoes and travel size shampoo for one.

I sort and press and place everything precisely where it should go. I’ve filled up the car with gas and set the alarm for far too early tomorrow morning. And finally, as I zip up my suitcase and set it next to the front door, all organized and complete, I sit down on the stairs and just cry.

Suddenly, I’m just so very lonely, and all alone to boot.