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Barcelona

We exchange so much online in so little time that in Barcelona I’m floored by the empathy in his kiss. I thought I knew him. How could I have missed that we are psychic?

I always think I know him only to find out we know each other so little. So little.

Yes. There we are in the square. Kissing. Because we walked not far at all. Not even a block or two, and he babbled on at me the way I would at him were I just a hair less smitten. If I were normally crushed, I’d just talk at him. Try so hard to impress him. With my big brain.

As he is doing to me now, with his brain even bigger in some ways yes. In some ways. In some parts. I am so fucking impressed.

Not just at what he says, the way he says it, the way he moves, and everything about him as a human being is exactly what I want, but could never out of my own mind create. He is excruciatingly opposite yet overlapping me and I understand and trust him completely through from the moment we kiss.

But before that, I am already stunned. Responding out of emergency. Not even a short Barcelona block, and he turns to me and says.

“Can I kiss you.” And I can barely breathe.

“Yes.” I squeak. There is nothing I have ever wanted more. To kiss him in Barcelona.

We dance. Physically, we move against one another. He’s rock hard, cock, wiry body, bones. I am soft breasts and belly and sweat mingles with my juices and drips down my legs. Barcelona is hot and wet. So am I.

I feel all the many lifetimes he’s been just out of my reach. All the dust of his decisions slipping through my fingers. 

I feel the pull. Wrenching us closer from our center. I feel it equal. I feel we’d both do just about anything.

Just about.

And so we walk and kiss and walk and kiss and walk and kiss. We are walking to one of his best friend’s places. We have friends we call sisters and brothers. Every time he moves away from me I ache for the music that vibrates through him. I am still aching.

Later he’ll break my heart saying he’s just a cock I met along the way. Just a cock in Barcelona. He’ll break my heart tonight, too. He breaks my heart regularly.

Barcelona lover

Now we are climbing the stairs. And we are inside. There are no sheets on the bed. Just a hastily thrown over cover. The place smells of neglect. Naked his posture shows his pain. I’m more drawn to him than I’ve ever been to any human and by his very nature he disrespects me.

And so we are naked. Kissing deeply. Eyes open.

He breaks to initiate a safer sex conversation. When he hears of testing and protection, he says eagerly

“So I can go down on you then?”

“Yes!” I say, lying back like a pig in mud, big ol’ smile on my face. He dives in.

He is enthusiastic, and playful, and impatient. I feel him tense. He wants to be inside me. He doesn’t give me enough to make me come. We’re kissing again and then I’m diving onto his cock, because it is there, uncut, and it leans just so. And in it I feel him, and I want to suck him forever, but it stops.

And I feel him torn. He is crossing a line. This is the first time he has cheated on his wife. He has to leave. He is anxiously already at the next thing he has to do to prepare for her return. But he is here with me in Barcelona and we are shocked by desire.

He jokes about the non-latex condom and my specific wording of it, and how the words tumble awkwardly off the tongue. We are both writers. We are both very good. I tell him later that I don’t know what it means to be a writer. He says that he’s not sure either, but probably it involves a love of words.

Rock hard, grinning, in a condom, ready.

“Where do you want me?” he asks, sitting on his haunches. I just point to my pussy and look up at him, in a daze, and he laughs.

Without words I gesture for him to lie on his side. I realize it doesn’t take broad gestures. He knows immediately what I’m asking for and there’s love in his meeting of my requests. I cross my legs through his and he enters me slowly, watching my hands and face like a musician watching a conductor. And here I work him into me slowly and exquisitely. Touching so many niches of my insides. Feeling his way in spiraling drills towards full penetration. 

I don’t predict what happens next.

Our eyes lock. We don’t let go. We have slow, hot, intimately connected sex while staring deeply into each other’s eyes. He catches one of my fingers with his mouth and sucks it then releases. I know what he wants. What we want.  My fingers serpentine down my body to my clit. He moves like they do, but doesn’t watch them. His eyes are on mine. 

I am playing with myself and receiving the transmission of his desire. The upward tilt of his head, the anguish in his eyes. He has needed to fuck me for so long. Our need runs so deep.

It is not delicate and sensual. It’s needy and compassionate. The fuck is our gift to each other. The giving slices deep and soft, pulling, sucking the receiving into a ever-whirling dance.

I come thrice around his cock and staring into his eyes. He laughs with release each time and the laughter bubbles through him and me and then he says

“I want to come.”

Come for me.” I reply, still staring into him.

He works his way faster and twists into the angle that feels best to him, while still staring at me. Watching his face tremble and his eyes ever more still as he quickens pace has me dripping wet and moving with him. Now he is the conductor. I anticipate his movement. His eyes show incredulity at our sync.

I feel consumed with his erotic energy. I’m delirious with the anticipation of him coming while staring into me. He feeds off that and I feel his intention. My favorite lover needs to come while staring into me. 

He needs to come in me while we see each other.

Closer, faster, looking deep into me and thrusting deep into me. Gripping and massaging my arm and hip with his hands. 

Even as he loses control he is still locked into vision with me and I see infinite universes reflected in our eyes.

He cries out as he comes.

It is sudden and singular and I feel hit with a bullet that heals as it wounds and flowers as it festers.

You know the rest. He smokes a cigarette. He kisses me goodbye. He’s off like a rocket. I mourn him. I leave Barcelona.

And I write this.

Three weeks later, tears stream down my face as I read his text.

“I just read your blog. Sorry it took me so long. And i reread it. And i hold my cock in my hand as I read it. We meet again.”


For more about my Favorite Lover:

How we met: Hookup

Favorite Lover as Muse:

1: Whoring for Lifetimes

2: Cheater

3: Stop. Falling. In. Love. With. Monogamous Men.

4: Speaking of the Future

The first of our cybersex duet series: Halloween Lover

More stories about monogamy, polyamory, and cheating:

1: Will He Or Won’t He?

2: Agenda

3: Naked in the Dark

4: Use a Condom

5: Stuck

6: Rapid City


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