Sometimes I just miss you

Texts during work, right after we had lunch together:

“...And you’re sexy.”
“Why?”
“Hahaha, guess where I am in my cycle?”
“Duh. Lol”
“But you really are sexy.”
“I think you just miss me”

Ithinkyoujustmissme.

Oh. It’s impossible, the missing. How I miss you. Even though you are right there, weaving in and out of my life, and I am right there, weaving in and out of yours. It’s unreal, the missing. But there it is, eating up my spine alive.

I want us to talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk. TALK. Oh how we can fucking talk. I want each and every word to evaporate off our skin and then thunder down so hard we scramble under the covers. Then I want your skin and your scent and your taste and your breath. Oh your breath, oscillating into my mine. Oh your breath, building up all the parts of me I cannot see. I want the joy of feeling strange parts of us colliding: my soles on your undulating back, your chin nuzzling into my clavicle, your lips on the precipices of my hips. I want you spilled into me, forgetting yourself inside of me. I want to believe holding those pieces guards against how much I’ll miss you when real life demands work and responsibility.

I want to believe I could exhaust myself here on your body. That the words and the love and the lust and the energy could shut me down, cool me off, leave me not wanting so much. But it never happens. The words rise between us, like steam, again and again and again, no matter how many times it seems like we strained them all out.

The words rise and then, so do you. And I melt under the mechanics we cannot see. A puddle of awe, made from words. Words that came from wanting.

And the wanting that started because I miss you more than I can say.

The Rival Game

“I like feeling inadequate” he whispers from behind as his cock slowly glides in and out my pussy. “I don’t know why, I just do. I like feeling inadequate. Like I can’t please you.”

We’ve played this game before. The imaginary rival game. We steal the names of my past lovers and make them come alive which each of his thrusts. I tell him that their cocks are better and more resilient; that they could fuck me all night long. He asks repeatedly to tell me about all the times other men have been able to fuck my ass. And I don’t give details as much as I give him my lust-struck face, riddled with the memory of all those past orgasms. He struggles in response, cock constricted with jealousy. Then I tell him why he’s not allowed to fuck my ass at all.

And then he comes.

He tells me after that he would never be able to bear it if I was really fucking another man. That the jealousy would eat him alive. And I tell him that there will never be another man.

We’ve played this game the other way around. The real rival game. We borrow the real names of his other loves and let them metaphorically lay down next to me while he fingers my cunt.

“I’m sorry I get in the way so often” I croon, his knuckles digging into my wet flesh.

“You’re sorry you get in the way of what?” he says, eliciting the secrets that build up under my skin.

“I’m sorry I get in the way of your other relationship”.

“Whose?” he’s says, pumping deeper into my pussy.

I say her name with his fingers burrowing deeper, consumed with all my wet arousal. She is a real person and they have present day commitments. This is not ancient history, the way it is when we play this game the other way around. I say her name and tell him that sometimes I just get jealous, that is why I get in the way.

He fingers my cunt and tells me of his other loves. He tells me what they do. If I were to say those things to him about my other loves he would shot his load under the fantasy of his inadequacy.

But that is not how I cum when we play this real game the other way around.

I cum under the reality that my lover is a wanted man.

A quality man, woven from empathy and compassion. He has other lovers because he can build depth and build safety and it’s natural for other women to want to get as close as possible to him. It’s natural to want to touch something so refined. It’s natural to want to maintain a serious relationship with such a man and so it’s natural that each of his lovers is not a casual one-night stand.

When we play the rival game when I’m pitted against the potentials of all his present day lovers, I never orgasm to a feeling of inadequacy. I cum under the delicious reality that my lover is beautiful and that the presence of other women just confirms that reality.

The rivals do not make me feel worthless. Instead, they magnify his worth.

And so I cum like a lunatic, thinking of him with his other lovers, because I intuitively understand he’s a man with a lot of love to give, and even if sometimes I can feel jealousy it doesn’t erode my ability to access how incredible luckily I am to have sex with a man who’s attention is so coveted.

When we play the rival game, I don’t enjoy feeling inadequate the way he does.
I enjoy experiencing who he is and all the intensely explosive emotions that go with it.