“I’m glad we fucked.”
Instead of seductive and satisfied, I know I come across as if we’ve just finished a business meeting. And maybe I should have said it hours before — right after we actually fucked. But lying in the dark, knowing we won’t right now (for a number of reasons), it’s a nice moment to reflect on: our Sunday morning fuck.
I have no libido. An engine that (usually) requires very little revving, I can now go days, even weeks, without thinking about sex in even the most abstract way. When you jokingly asked, “Do you even remember the last orgasm you had?” I drew a blank.
No desire for sex doesn’t stop me from wanting you. I still snuggle and spoon in the most suggestive way possible so you know, even in the middle of sleep, you can and should initiate contact. On the few occasions you’ve skipped our typical Sunday morning fuck, I’ve expressed disappointment.
Because it’s not about being turned on or getting off. The satisfaction I feel isn’t sexual in the way we usually think of it.
I can’t get enough of your fingers digging into my hips, pulling me close. Our legs rubbing against the other’s, groin against groin. I need the heat and sweat of our bodies moving together in mutual purpose. The sound of your groans; the squeak of the bed. Your cock in my cunt feels amazing, but it’s more than that. It’s your breath on my shoulder. Your nails in my skin. The way the covers tangle in our feet.
Our fucking is warm, comfortable, intimate…even when I’m barely sexually aroused and don’t get off.
So yeah, I’m glad we fucked.