Although our love making is never ever the same (didn’t even know that was possible, to be honest), our nights together tend to always follow the same format. He arrives, we kiss hello and pour a beverage, then settle on the couch for an hour or so and catch up. At some point our eyes meet, one of us leans in, and it begins; sometimes fast, sometimes slow, usually with me climbing into his lap.
Into the bedroom then, we rejoice in our bodies and delight in our carnal joining. Such deliciousness, over and over and over for me; he holds out, building, building, building the pleasure, until he can’t resist anymore.
Then sleep. He wakes slowly, touching, rubbing, we begin chatting and telling stories of days long gone. Once more – “that one was just for me” (yum) – a quick cuddle, then he dresses and makes his way home.
The funny thing is he thinks I sleep when he does. Our very first evening together, four months ago now, he commented how amazed he was that I slept so quickly, so soundly. I didn’t tell him. I didn’t sleep then and, to date and to my knowledge, I have never slept a minute in his presence. I lay next to him and listen to him breathe, our “Joy” playlist on Spotify plays quietly in the background, and I simply slip into bliss. For an hour or more, my brain is empty and I just am. It is the most wonderful feeling.
Why don’t I sleep?, you wonder. Why not doze lightly, rest, because these are late nights of immoral indulgence, hours of excitement followed by sweet sweet release. But I don’t sleep. I can’t. Because I’m afraid I’ll cut loose a loud fart.
(Bet you didn’t know my story was headed in that direction 😉)