We moved on May 31. By June 2 we were yelling at each other inside our car while in a parking lot. Barely coherent, not communicating clearly, seriously tired and overwhelmed.
We weren’t at our best. Understandable, of course, but devastating because it’s so fucking rare. I don’t even know how to handle anger like that anymore, especially towards him. And I think it’s safe to say he doesn’t know how to handle it with me, either.
Once we’d experienced the catharsis of released tension, we fell back into our typical ways. Laughing, joking, actually talking to the other. The stress still lives just under the surface. A chaotic home, new city, and nothing in its rightful place has done that to both of us. (I know there are people who thrive on chaos and the lack of a routine — we are not those people.)
After his first decent night’s sleep in days (possibly weeks), John Brownstone reached for me in the pre-dawn hour. Too tired to do more than arch my back in his general direction, I still sighed with pleasure when cock and cunt met. I knew I’d missed this, but I didn’t realize just how much until I had him back again.
He made few sounds and took his time. I may have dozed a bit. This kind of fuck needs little from me other than my willingness, especially when he gets the lube out. His hands felt good against my back, pressing into my hip, running through my hair.
When he finished, still nearly silent (now a must thanks to the new layout of our house), I stumbled to the bathroom to clean up and back to bed. We fell back asleep, holding hands.
We woke up an hour or so later, each less stressed and easier in the other’s presence. It was a comfort fuck…for both of us.
We’re not quite back to ourselves. Putting together furniture, moving furniture, and figuring out where things are has not brought out the best in us. But we’re better than we were before.
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