Love is a mystery.
I don’t know how he does it, but he just keeps loving me. And it is this, in the end, that opens my door again.
I am eager to touch him, his face, his shoulders, the piercing in his nipple. He pulls off his shirt to give me access. He is a generous man.
I am not ready for him to touch me back. Not yet. I stay clothed. At one point, he teases me a little, tugging on my shirt, but I say, I’m not ready. I know, he says, and makes room for my pace. He is a wise man.
He allows me to explore him, enjoy him, pull him to me, grind on this leg. I lie across his lap, wrap around his middle, roll over him and under him, groaning in pleasure at the exchange of weight. He is an easy man.
We are kissing, and I ask him to do whatever he likes with my mouth. He opens us big, reaching with tongue, like dancing in a large cave. He loves it. I like seeing what he loves. He is a man who loves large.
I ask him to kiss me the way he thinks I like. He is softer now, mushing about and sucking my lips, which I love. He makes a wrong guess, and I tell him, Not that, and he changes. I ask him to tickle my lips with the tip of his tongue. I love that too. He is a patient man.
This is an extraordinary luxury, a man who is quite capable of leading, but who agrees to follow. And a woman who was taught to follow and who learns to lead.
I am reminded of the rightness of pleasing a woman.
I am forever on my soap box about not performing or using a technique. God help the poor man who tries to use a technique on me. Even a ‘good’ one.
There is another way to please a woman, and this is the way that feels right to me. Right, down to my bones. And that is to give her enough room to set her pace. It amazes me how much passion I have when I have room. He is a lucky man.