Remember When

The dance begins the minute a drop of the vodka and Ice Tea drink I make every night hits my tongue. We chat casually, there are not-so-subtle sexual innuendos exchanged, I retire to the bedroom in hopes that you follow me, and you sit at your computer, working on...whatever. It builds from there like a fire out of control. And for some reason, I end up hating you as I use my Hitachi Magic Wand to quell the hunger.

There was a time when we fucked like bunnies. Not just fucked – devoured each other. There was that afternoon we spent with your face between my legs, sucking voraciously at my clit until I had to cover my mouth with the pillow to muffle the sounds. And the time you bent me over the bed and plowed me from behind, just enough to come and leave me wanting but in such a delicious way that I smiled for hours afterwards. And the time that you took me on the kitchen table as we tried to keep quiet so that the neighbors wouldn't hear, even those there was no mistaking that my juices were making me slide off the edge of the pale blonde wood. These moments did happen, right? I can't be imagining these imperfect minutes of orgasmic perfection. But it HAS been 13 years. What do you expect?

Yet, even as I dig my fingers into my too sensitive cunt, I can't help but think that we are not that much different than we used to be. I still crave those mornings when you spoon me and it's hard to ignore that I still affect you. Or those looks that you give me when I walk by wearing stretch pants that frame my ass perfectly. It helps that I'd just learned that you're an ass man.

Last Saturday night you drug me by my hand to the couch, bent me over and rested your hands gently on my hips. All I could think about what "Please don't be gentle. Hurt me, push me, make me feel." You slowly undressed me when I wanted you to tear my underwear off. You stroked my back when I wanted you to drag your nails across my skin. And then you threw me off by pulling my head back hard. I felt every nerve ending in my body ignite. It's these times when I feel like you know what I want. That I don't have to wish anymore. That I don't have to sit in the dark and cry, hoping that this unfulfilled longing doesn't lead me to find fulfillment somewhere else. I can't. Don't want to. But the throbbing is becoming painful and I don't know how to stop it.

And then you throw me off my game again. You feed me tiny nibbles of affection. An email that reminds me of how wet I was that night. A text that praises the slope of my waist. How much you love to slide your hand down the valley in my back. I remember once asking you to be my master and though you said you'd try, I know that you were hoping that I'd forget. That I didn't know what I was talking about. That those damn hormones were controlling me again. This can't be real. I can't really think about fucking that much and if I do, there is definitely something wrong. And yet, tonight I sit in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner as you lay in our bed, calling silently. I know because my clit is like a vibrating beacon. It always responds to you this way. My teeth hurt, my tongue hurts, my head hurts. There's no other way to describe this longing and yet I'm ashamed of this.

But you're not actually calling. It's probably all in my mind. All those erotic books that I read working me up again. If I'd just stop doing that, I might get past this phase. I try to focus on the TV but the awful shows I like to watch are a weak distraction. I long to be filled by you. To feel your mouth on me. To feel your cock in me. But there's a part of me that wonders why this is all I can think about. Is this what happens when you get older? Whatever the case, I look forward to spending the next 4 hours burning for you. Praying that you'll call me to you. That you'll make me feel like less of a freak for this ache. That you give my Hitachi Magic Wand a break until tomorrow. Please baby. I remember when...