Hand one:
She's amorous. I don't mind that; in fact, I like the cuddling and the generalized, comfort-level intimacy of it. The problem is that I know that she wants more from me. I can't give that to her.
Not like it's an emotional thing or anything like that. I'd really like to be able to have that interest in her. For a while, I did. Now, though, it's moved into the realm of the impossible to ignore via the road of the impossible to bypass. Not much that a guy can do when his body just doesn't respond.
The malaria-ridden mosquito in the ointment is the conversation. The one that every guy dreads having, the "let's just be friends" [slash] "I'm just not into you that way" one. Funny being on the giving side of that convo, though. Both funny ironic and, in a way, funny ha-ha as well. Role reversal. I suppose it's one of those things that us guys just aren't supposed to have to say.
She's attractive in her way. The desire to sleep with her just... faded. I'd think that it was something going on with me (and there probably might be some of that here, considering the last experience we had together -- I understand the enthusiasm, but getting a blow job and having to check afterward to make sure I hadn't been cut by the dental involvment isn't a great experience) if it wasn't for
Hand two:
As social associates of mine know, sometimes too well for their comfort, I think that there are two types of people in this world when it comes to this. There are people who have sex, and there are people who fuck. Sex is technique. Fucking is complete emotional abandon, damaged furniture, noise complaints, marks and hickeys and bruises and the type of soreness that only gymnasts and powerlifters know.
On the night in question, that woman and I, we fucked.
I'd like to say that it was just a great lay, but that don't quite cover it. It was lapping juices while she bucked like a wild mare; it was screams that weren't forced, nor fake; it was grunting like the primal idea of a man, before the creation. It was breath and sweat: exhaustion and oblivion and complete collapse.
I look back on when we were together, in the past, and realize how far we've both come. But there's a bit of strangeness.
I think there's something to be said about wilfully rejecting the relationship. Something to be said for being lovers, but forcing distance. Making sure that there's no easy access, and no possession.
Or more to the point, no possession that will ever be satisfied. Just hunger for the body and the roiling passion within it. An atavistic mix of lust and respect that can't be sated, not because it can't, but because we won't. Because it isn't allowed; because I keep it caged and give it only glimpses of freedom.
Maybe she feels this way as well... and maybe she doesn't. I suppose I won't know until the next time we meet. It's bestial, but I'm not sure that I care.
...
Even with the elation, though, I can't help doubting my feelings, and my motivations, and what I may be becoming. I suppose that it's a natural part of forcing myself to walk a razor's edge; at one point or another I'll need to shift right and left to keep my balance. It's uncomfortable. But I suppose that pursuit always is.
I don't look back on it with regret, or with distaste. It just seems somehow... alien. Fantastic. Like a dream that makes me question which one is the waking world.
It's like walking away from the experience of art.
She's amorous. I don't mind that; in fact, I like the cuddling and the generalized, comfort-level intimacy of it. The problem is that I know that she wants more from me. I can't give that to her.
Not like it's an emotional thing or anything like that. I'd really like to be able to have that interest in her. For a while, I did. Now, though, it's moved into the realm of the impossible to ignore via the road of the impossible to bypass. Not much that a guy can do when his body just doesn't respond.
The malaria-ridden mosquito in the ointment is the conversation. The one that every guy dreads having, the "let's just be friends" [slash] "I'm just not into you that way" one. Funny being on the giving side of that convo, though. Both funny ironic and, in a way, funny ha-ha as well. Role reversal. I suppose it's one of those things that us guys just aren't supposed to have to say.
She's attractive in her way. The desire to sleep with her just... faded. I'd think that it was something going on with me (and there probably might be some of that here, considering the last experience we had together -- I understand the enthusiasm, but getting a blow job and having to check afterward to make sure I hadn't been cut by the dental involvment isn't a great experience) if it wasn't for
Hand two:
As social associates of mine know, sometimes too well for their comfort, I think that there are two types of people in this world when it comes to this. There are people who have sex, and there are people who fuck. Sex is technique. Fucking is complete emotional abandon, damaged furniture, noise complaints, marks and hickeys and bruises and the type of soreness that only gymnasts and powerlifters know.
On the night in question, that woman and I, we fucked.
I'd like to say that it was just a great lay, but that don't quite cover it. It was lapping juices while she bucked like a wild mare; it was screams that weren't forced, nor fake; it was grunting like the primal idea of a man, before the creation. It was breath and sweat: exhaustion and oblivion and complete collapse.
I look back on when we were together, in the past, and realize how far we've both come. But there's a bit of strangeness.
I think there's something to be said about wilfully rejecting the relationship. Something to be said for being lovers, but forcing distance. Making sure that there's no easy access, and no possession.
Or more to the point, no possession that will ever be satisfied. Just hunger for the body and the roiling passion within it. An atavistic mix of lust and respect that can't be sated, not because it can't, but because we won't. Because it isn't allowed; because I keep it caged and give it only glimpses of freedom.
Maybe she feels this way as well... and maybe she doesn't. I suppose I won't know until the next time we meet. It's bestial, but I'm not sure that I care.
...
Even with the elation, though, I can't help doubting my feelings, and my motivations, and what I may be becoming. I suppose that it's a natural part of forcing myself to walk a razor's edge; at one point or another I'll need to shift right and left to keep my balance. It's uncomfortable. But I suppose that pursuit always is.
I don't look back on it with regret, or with distaste. It just seems somehow... alien. Fantastic. Like a dream that makes me question which one is the waking world.
It's like walking away from the experience of art.
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
legionnaire:
Passion is fantastic, but I find it has a tendency to burn itself out quickly. Maybe it's not so with other people, but the slow, satisfying sex tends to lend itself to longer relationships with me than the "waking up the neighbors, broken furniture, massive rugburn" style of sex. Just my experience.
s5:
i'm guessing you did it by sharing the cookie somehow between the two browsers.