Sundays

I'd slept in today. It's been a few years since I woke with anyone in the bed next to me. This Sunday was no different. I still mostly sleep on one side. Waiting, I suppose. Maybe someday someone would be here, wanting their side of my bed. Our bed. I suppose it shouldn't just be mine if they're sharing it with me. We're sharing it, I mean.

I thought about getting my vibrator out, finding some video or other with a good creampie ending. One where I can really hear the guy's orgasm. Hear how badly he's needed to cum. That always does it for me. Ragged breaths, loud guttural groans, genuine lustful emotion. That phrase, lustful emotion. I almost think it's something of an oxymoron. But even lust can go deep.

A text comes in from a friend, of sorts. Someone I've been writing with lately. I decide against my solo tryst. I need to get moving.

The text doesn't even say good morning. He's asking about a setting. Someplace I know in my mind and he's having a hard time picturing. I text him back: I'll call you later. I just got up and have a few things that need to get done first. We'd agreed to not work today, but that was something I enjoyed about him. Like me, he couldn't really turn his mind off.

Sounds good. Oh, and good morning, Beautiful!

I don't know how to feel about how I've been feeling about him lately.

It's warm again today. I don't know why, but whenever it finally starts to get warm like this, I feel a need to bake bread. I think it might be because I know it's about to get too warm to do so. I make my coffee and lay out everything I need. Everything is clean and organized now. It's just me. And it's easier this way.

I play some French pop on Pandora, French Cooking Music Radio is what it's called. I don't speak much French, despite having more living relatives there than here. It isn't like I know any of them, anyway. I try to learn, but other things get in the way. Still, that damn owl haunts me, just as he haunts us all.

What's haunting me right now, as I sift the flour, is a song from once upon a time. It takes me back a decade, closer to two decades now than not, and that realization would have once felt like a punch in the gut. Not now though. My life is my own now, and I cannot ask for more. I don't dare.

This song though. It reminds me of this man I'd known. In my head he wasn't much of a man back then. Not in any kind of derogatory sense. We were both so much younger then. More of a guy than a man. He emailed me a year back, asking how I was. He'd heard some things about me and wanted to catch up. I ignored it. I'd long given up any kind of social media presence and knew he'd had to put in some effort to reach me.

Still, I ignored him.

We'd had so much fun together back then. He was the first man I ever truly loved. Thinking now, he might have been the only man I ever did love. The one that taught me that every poet in the world wasn't exaggerating. But they never could quite depict that wretched pain of having a dull, jagged blade pierce your heart and twist over and over again until you finally, slowly, come back to your senses and realize how stupid you'd been to ever love.

For a year that man had been there, next to me, every Sunday morning when I'd wake up. It was always either a quickie or a blow job in the morning. We both had things to do after all. We were both in grad school at the time and we both worked. This damned song though, it brings me back to one of our slower Sundays.

I'd made bread that day, too. Smiling to myself, I begin to knead my dough. Maybe after I'm done, I'll answer that email from a year ago. I won't. But right now in this memory space I do miss him. He'd fallen back asleep after the blow job. I knew I was good, but I loved hearing him tell me anyway. Who wouldn't? I don't know if I'd believed him as much if they didn't knock him out afterwards as often as they did.

He'd be awake by the time I was done showering and dressing. It worked out well. We mostly worked well. Until we didn't. But there, in our own little pretend world, I'd never been happier. I'd never known what that was like before him. I think that had a lot to do with how much I loved him. And why. And how, for the first time in my life, despite having lost a mother at seventeen, I'd experienced such grief I felt it physically in my chest. I always thought people were being rather dramatic, until it happened to me.

He gave me a quick kiss and hopped in the shower as I finished dressing. I put on the same French cooking music that I have on now and began to bake. I'd sway my hips and do silly little twirls. Dancing by myself as I baked, as I still do. Imagining myself in some little café, being swept off my feet.

I've always had a ridiculously overactive imagination.

I was covering the bread, about to let it rise, swaying my hips to the music when he came out behind me. He snuck up on me and put his hands on my hips, matching my movements. My face was heating up, and he wasn't helping it as his beard nuzzled into the crook of my neck. I felt silly for blushing at this, after everything we'd done together. Still, here I was, red faced as we moved together.

I'd had so many firsts with this man that was holding me now, swaying with me, making me blush. About a year before him I'd gotten out of a seven-year relationship, my first ever with my high school sweetheart. We'd both simply been too lazy or too afraid to end it with one another. I'd slept with a handful of people in between, but had never built any kind of emotional connection with them. They'd been subpar at best, in every aspect.

Our first time together was just before the whole 'Netflix and chill' jokes began. But that's basically what happened. We'd met online, talked for a couple of weeks before meeting in person. We connected in a way I'd never experienced before. He inspired me to be better, but I never felt less talking to him. The storm that ended us has kindly faded to a drizzle. Allowing me to remember our time together fondly.

My apartment was just across the street from this Irish pub. He came to my place first. I was so reckless back then. Or I suppose naïve, if I'm being kind to myself. I try to be anymore, kind to myself that is. We had a few drinks at the pub. He asked if I wanted to go watch some episodes of this show we'd both loved and talked about. Archer if memory serves, and it does. It just feels so silly now, in a cute sort of way.

I was a poor grad student working in a crappy coffee shop just to pay rent. I had a small studio apartment with a tiny kitchen, my bed, and a little bistro table with two chairs. My books were stacked along the walls, and it worked for me. I was only ever there to sleep, really.

That first night we sat on my bed and watched a few episodes on my laptop. The first time I ever owned my own tv was shortly after my divorce a few years ago. I went from living at home to college to grad school to living with the man I'd marry. I never once bought a tv. I'd rather spend money on books. The laptop always worked well enough for everything else.

We were close to each other, but not touching, not at first. I'd felt relaxed the whole evening. He was so easy to talk to. We progressively moved closer and closer to one another, until he had an arm around me. The episode ended and he closed my laptop.

He looked at me after that. Just looked, searching my face for I don't know what. I know I blushed then too before looking away. When I looked back, he kissed me. I felt my whole body quiver. I was probably already in love with him at that point. I fall in love so easily. I don't see that trait in the negative light I once did. It's not just with people either, not usually with people anymore actually.

I fall in love with the wrought iron gate on my walk home. The one he teases me about and hurries me past. It's so beautiful and steady, even slightly broken it's reliable. I fall in love with the scarf on our path that someone's dropped in their hurry to get home. He can't help but roll his eyes at my appreciation for Scottish wool. I fall in love with the girl walking home through the park at midnight, crying because her lover said he wanted to walk home from the bar alone that night. She should have someone's love.

I don't remember much of the progression that evening. I remember losing myself in that kiss and how his lips felt on mine. We'd fucked for quite a while. He'd cum once and was ready to go again, but we both needed a bit of a break. He wiped the sweat from his forehead back over and through his hair. This was a little habit of his. I still see this action of his more clearly than anything else about him. But it's the memory of his lingering kiss on my forehead that I still feel, that can still nearly pull me to tears more than anything else.

I was curled up on him, our bodies slick with sweat. I licked his chest and he shivered as he squeezed me tightly for just a minute. I giggled into his chest. Beyond blissful in that moment. He knew my experiences had been somewhat limited. We hadn't talked too much about it. Somethings are better discussed in person, in certain moments. "Is there anything you'd like to try?"

"Hmmm" I purr into him as I bury my face in his chest hair.

"What?"

"I don't know!" We both know I'm lying.

"Tell me!" He was more demanding than I really felt comfortable with, but I needed that push. And I was very grateful for it in pretty short order.

I sat up and covered my face with my hands. He put his hands on my arms but didn't even try to pull them away. "I've never tried anal before." I said it quickly, and a bit too sharply if I remember correctly. I wish I hadn't been covering my face. What I wouldn't give to have seen his reaction. I moved my hands away from my face, the brightest crimson red at this point I have no doubt.

I don't really remember what happened after that until he's fucking me from behind. I had to beg my first boyfriend to be fucked like this. I'd lost so much time being with him, feeling as though there was something wrong with me. Feeling ashamed for enjoying sex, for wanting to fuck and be fucked and so much more. The man behind me in that memory enjoyed every part of me so thoroughly. I thought for a moment that maybe he was playing some cruel trick on me. I still have flashes to this day like that. I can't accept that anyone cares about me for me. Would care about me. Would want me for me. And maybe they don't. It's a bit of a moot point now.

He's behind me, enjoying me as I'm enjoying him. He asked if I had lube. I serendipitously had some for some sincerely innocent reason. Nothing that matters now. It's in the nightstand drawer and I clumsily grab it for him as he's fucking me. He walks me through everything he's doing. Telling me to let him know if something is too much, if it's not just pressure, if it actually hurts. First one finger in my ass. It was a unique experience to be certain. A tingle spreading through me as his cock kept slowly thrusting into me.

He'd move his finger, stretching me slightly. Then he retreated, only to replace it with his thumb. He filled me like this for a bit before repeating his technique. Thumb out, two fingers in this time. He's still talking me through everything, slowly sliding his perfectly lubed cock into my overly lubed ass. It was messy, but he'd wanted me taken care of. I certainly wasn't complaining. He'd started with slow thrusts, and I could feel this electricity go throughout my body with each movement. I could feel every little bit of him exploring every bit of me. Every twitch and squirm, it was marvelous.

I've always been loud in bed. It had been annoying when I still lived at home, having to try and muffle my passion. It was never anything I'd put on, I never needed to. I just let what comes to me naturally happen. I'd been with him for months before I told him hard it was for me to cum. He was surprised given how much I thoroughly enjoyed everything. I was embarrassed and didn't want to be a burden. I didn't dare ask for anything given how much he was already giving me.

I remember him being attentive and always so thorough. After my lack of a sex life, I didn't really care if I came or not. I just enjoyed being with him. When I told him, he was a little disappointed. I remember apologizing for not being honest. His expression when I apologized- I'll remember it for the rest of my life. He couldn't believe I was apologizing. He figured out what it took to make me cum and more than made up for the times when I hadn't. Not that he needed to.

It's so hard to make me cum that when I do it's fairly obvious. If nothing else the uncontrollable aftershocks give it away. Not to mention my nipples get hard enough they could cut glass. He loved making me cum, he said it made him feel accomplished and he loved seeing my face as I zoned out for a bit afterwards. That didn't happen that first night though.

That first night, he's fucking my ass and groaning right behind my ear. It's like nothing I've ever felt before. It's beyond amazing. I can't get enough. I don't remember how long we fucked like that. I remember him asking me where he should cum. I wanted him to cum inside me so fucking bad. And I told him so. He happily obliged and I remember us collapsing, him on top of me, both of us satisfied and exhausted.

But now, here I am. Alone in my kitchen, years later, waiting on the bread to rise, remembering him swaying behind me as I made bread all those years ago. I finally got to a point where the dough was coming together, and my hands were mostly flour covered. He nibbled on my shoulder, making my knees weak and my pussy wet all over again. He grabbed me by the waist and turned me around. He pulled me to him, and we started dancing. I started blushing again.

I never thought anyone would want to dance with me. And here he was, putting up with flour all over both of us now, loose strands of my hair flying everywhere. They'd come loose from the effort of kneading the bread and I couldn't exactly stop to fix them. The song ended. He kissed me ardently as he held me firmly.

I tried not to get the flour everywhere.