Maybe my expectations are too much, too soon.
To have sex asecondtime in a week was a big step. Perhaps I shouldn’talsohope that he’d suddenly be inspired to wear my legs like a scarf and have me for dessert, make sure I also felt fulfilled by tonight’s activities. But the night isn’t over yet. He could still surprise me. A smirk crosses my face at the thought of what could come next.
Me, hopefully.
“Did you finish?” David asks me, rolling over to grab a Kleenex and wipe himself off without waiting for my response. I watch the lone drop of sweat run down his chest to the slight indent at the top of his abdomen, where it spreads to more of his skin, being almost fully absorbed there, the only evidence of any effort having been put into the last quarter of an hour we spent together. His face isn’t even reddened.
Oh, God.
Does he think I came?
Do I tell him?
How does he not fucking know?!
Did you finish?What kind of partner of five years has toaskif their partner came? If you’re having to ask, no. No I didn’t, David. But you should fucking know that.
I slam my eyes shut and inhale a sharp breath before the even sharper words can leave my mouth. No matter how true the thoughts are, I would never be so harsh or callous of a loved one’s feelings. Of an enemy’s feelings, for that matter. It’s not my style.
Rather than make him feel bad for the anticlimactic conclusion of our lovemaking (at least for me), as that will do nothing productive, I mentally map out about a half dozen possible courses of action here to get me where I want to be: satiated, relaxing in his arms, whispering sweet nothings and falling asleep together in the next ten minutes. I decide on the path that seems best in this moment in a matter of seconds, and engage.
I’m a creature of logic, and while it may not sound romantic, I find logic toneverbe the wrong option in a situation, even matters of the heart. Or lady bits, as this particular case may be.
I roll onto my side, clutching the sheet to my full chest, watching him as he disposes of the Kleenex. The way the muscles in his arm flex with the motion, his dark hair—on the short side—swaying as he leans back into the bed. His dark brown eyes finally return to my blue-gray ones, realizing I haven’t yet answered him. I shake my head in an attempt to stay demure, long blonde hair flipping from side to side with the motion, hoping my attempt at a seductive expression entices him to come back and pick up where he left off.
Instead, he flops down and pulls the top sheet over himself, leaving the cream, downy comforter piled at the bottom of the bed. “Maybe you’re tired,” he tells me in a tone that sounds almost disinterested, like he is giving me permission to not finish.
Like he isexcusingme for the night.
Like he oh-so-kindly doesn’t blame me for my body’s lack of cooperation with our twelve minute stint that just doubled our weeklyactivity.
Like he doesn’t realize thatheis a large factor in whether I finish or not. How he treats me, how cherished I feel, howvaluedI feel as a woman, and how desired. How these all factor into my enjoyment of the activity itself, to say nothing of his physical prowess or the same two techniques he employs every Saturday night as far back as I can remember. Because all of those things are onhim, and he is a huge factor when it comes to my satisfaction, as I am with his.
I can’t even imagine a world where I get myself off on his body, then tell him he’s probably just too tired to finish, roll over and go to sleep. Just hypothesizing about the concept, the theoretical alone, makes me clasp a hand over my mouth to stop a giggle from escaping. It’sasinine.
But he doesn’t seem to realize any of that. And he damn sure seems to be done for the night, his slow, rhythmic breathing indicative of just how close to passed out he already is, in his own world where everything is just fucking perfect.
And it’s just now that I realize that this is my fault. I have encouraged this in him, through not prioritizing my own pleasure, by focusing so much on him and so little on me, onus, I have created this.
Every time I, shall we say,amplifymy own enjoyment for his benefit, I am leading him on, letting him think I’m really at the peak of physical pleasure, rather than just barely able to get myself off every other time we get down to it.
He doesn’t know the mental gymnastics I have to perform to get myself in the mood, to keep myself aroused while he lays on top of me, wordlessly, working toward his own pleasure, convincing myself this aspect of our relationship is as amazing as I want it to be.
How guilty I feel when it’s images of fictional men, rather than his own face, in situations or positions I wish we were in that push me over the edge more often than not.
Imagining my body being worked by someone who knew it inside and out—someone who worshiped those curves it’s endowed with for a change—while they whispered dirty perfection into my ear until I shatter and break.
But no. He doesn’t get any of that. Because I don’t think he reallycaresor sees that there is even an issue to be addressed. To him, sex is a necessary byproduct of a life partnership, not a vital act of passion between two souls who are fused together by their bodies.
It isn’t what he feeds off of. It doesn’t propel us into some intense intimacy the way I’ve always dreamed it would, and it isn’t thoughts of physical acts of our love that keep him warm at night.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’m pretty close to positive that he doesn’t eventhinkabout sex until it’s eight fifty-nine on Saturday nights and his boner pops up, right on schedule. And I guess that’s not something I should complain about.
I love that he loves me for me, not for the pleasure my body can bring his. But is it so wrong to want to be desired and fully appreciated as a woman?
Now I’m just nitpicking, I know. I have it so much better than most.
But I grew up being warned constantly by song lyrics, shows and movies from Hollywood, stories floating around school like urban legends, tales of warning, of how guys only wanted one thing from a girl.
