(X Rated warning)
“Get your pretty ass up here and ride my cock.”
How did we get here? With Confessions.
Weeks of waking up to increasingly romantic songs that we wanted to share with each other until he confessed it was my Guiness and Root Beer eyes he wanted to wake up to, that he was done trying to pretend he was content acting like the Gay Boyfriend with me. Seduction or courtship, I can’t tell the difference except that if he’s insincere, then I’m a bigger fool than I realized.
So I confessed everything from Afghanistan, to my autistic adult brother to my body dysmorphia, to my frustraring inability to orgasm on antidepressants to my insistence that sex mucks things up and it would never work between us because he’s allergic to cats…and he listened quietly, intently while holding my hands against his chest. When I came up for air, he waited before asking “anything else?”
“I think that’s the heaviest of it.”
“And here is where I’m supposed to agree that it will never work?”
“Something like that,” I think I mumbled as he crushed my mouth against his. I didn’t get to the matter of Faith but the lifting left me tired and I was ready to accept his rest.
I was surprised how aggressive and confident he could be. And relieved at it. He’s a shockingly adept “dirty talker” for a Poet and I certainly never took him for an enthusiastic or skilled eater of pussy. But there it happened, as he held me firm and refused to let me squirm away. He hit me and I clawed him. “You need this, don’t you?” My answer sounded like a starving kitten, so he petted and pittied me with tenderness and assured me he adored me.
We still cracked jokes. Danced. Chatted with his son on the phone. He is capable of making me blush. I awoke to his heart in song: Doris Day, the Vandals,…I shared Angel Olsen, Cigarettes After Sex, Judy and Ella. We traded Ida Maria songs. He said he was struggling to be productive because he couldn’t go more than five minutes without thinking about me wrapped around him.
And I still don’t believe “this” will work.
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