He’s my Favorite Lover because of the way his confidence kicked in that day he made me come with his mouth for the first time.
Massaging my outer lips in different patterns. Fingers of his left hand go up whilst the right ones go down. Pulling my clit into different shapes underneath his tongue. Relentlessly licking my hot, wet bud and fucking me gently and precisely with the tip of his finger. He has the sense not to stop as I rollick into my first orgasm. He moves his focus slightly and changes the direction and angle of his tongue circles. The second and third orgasm are on the heels of my first. I become stupid loyal in this moment.
He’s my Favorite Lover because he came over and complained that I was having more orgasms than he, that the tally is truly unfair. When I tried to pull the gender card he simply shoved his cock in my mouth until he came, waited ten minutes, then fucked my pussy, pulled out and came all over my belly while exclaiming.
“Yes, two! One more than you tonight! I’m ahead!”
Then raised his arms over his head and struck a bicep muscle flex pose before kissing me deeply.
He’s my Favorite Lover because when he asks me to claw his back I can’t. I am frozen in the thought that she will see and think I would initiate such a mark rather than him. I love him. It’s on him to choose to tell her.
He’s my Favorite Lover because he loves to laugh during sex. Because I make him laugh.
He’s my Favorite Lover because he knows when to hold me. When to soothe me and tell me his version of what he thinks I need. He doesn’t hold back from giving advice and consolation.
Even though he’s messed up and usually hanging by a thread, somehow time with him sets me right. I take what he has to give.
Today I should be arriving on playa.
Today I was fucking you. A year ago I was fucking you. I was kissing you in the square, feeling you instantly rock hard against me. Feeling your perfect height and knowing that right there, facing me front to front, you could slip inside me in the middle of the square.
Today I could ruin another man’s life. Seduce him away from his fear.
Today I was feeling you. The music in you. The dance we switch. The following. The leading. The beat. The tempo. You gave me that rhythm to ride, and I refuse to get off.
Today was the first day of college.
Today I should be tasting the dust, testing my knowledge. I should be tensegrity and DC power and beauty, costumes and decoration.
Today there are thicc, exaggerated, laden clouds.
Today I want to be left alone. I don’t want him or him or him or him or him.
I want you. Today.
At midnight he arrives. Drunk. Jumps in bed with me. I am face down, protecting my sides, bear attack position, because he is clumsy and has so many knees and elbows and pointy bits.
He pulls off my underwear and devours my cunt. Eats me for an hour, sucking my clit just under what I need to come and edging me for two earth-shattering orgasms that leave me whimpering at him as he flips me face down again and shoves inside of me.
“There that’s what you want, isn’t it? It’s what I want.” he whispers in my ear, delicious, words dripping with that accent and the sexy dry-palate of his slur.
Every angle, every position. Until we are back to simple missionary and he is slamming into my wet cunt with fulfilling slaps that leave a sting scattering through my clit and have my hands circling his hips and pulling his ass towards me to get just a little more traction on his drive. To feel him deeper. Deeper inside. Inside me.
We begin recording together. He interviews me about orgasms and then I get bitter about the orgasm gap and he gets insecure about me being able to have ten times as many orgasms as he can, and always feeling left short. We point scrutiny at orgasms.
For a few days it ruins our sex life.
I’m terrified. Similar themes have ruined my sex life with The Plant Whisperer. The chemistry between myself and my Favorite is my very favorite thing in life. I despair that it might ruin and sing my lament to him.
“I don’t like fucking you because you are good at giving me orgasms. You are, but it doesn’t matter.” I say. “I love you. I like who you are. The way you vibrate at core turns me on. You are psychic. I am psychic. I love looking in your eyes and mirroring one another and feeling your cock deep inside me completing the circuit. This is the entree. Orgasms are a side dish.” I declare.
His eyes well up. He sings “Ne me quitte pas” to me.
I will offer you
Pearls of rain
Coming from countries
Where it does not rainJacques Brel
We go back to our transcendant sex. Psychic, loving, gentle. Rough, animal, extreme. The relationship is healed.
You shake in the morning and need alcohol and nicotine to get started and even then seem to need distance but I really wanted to suck your cock so I wrinkled my nose against your pants that need laundering when you pulled your cock out through their fly and sucked you off just to feel you shudder and tense under my tongue.
Worth it, but next time take off your pants.
He’s my Favorite Lover because he doesn’t care what condition I am in. He just wants to fuck me. We compete for who loves fucking the other more.
He’s my Favorite Lover because he moans and quivers and says
“You can do that?” when I clench my kegel muscles and sheath and grip his cock inside my sopping cunt. When I flutter and flick my cunt at his tip when he pulls out and then squeeze tight as he pops back in.
He writhes, head lolls, doesn’t know where to put the pleasure. He makes me feel special and talented and now motivated. In my off time I train my pussy muscles for your cock, Favorite Lover.
He is my Favorite Lover because of the way he kneads me. Whatever piece of me he finds underneath his hands is scratched and squeezed and worked and rubbed.
So many have treated my body as though it exists in parts but not taken it as a whole. As though I am a cunt with boobs and a head.
His hands on my belly, on my hips, handfuls and cups and pats and smacks. Even after sex as we lay together chatting in dozy orgasmic bliss his hands explore and work me, reassuring me, priming me, owning me.
He asked me what I think of when I come. I proudly told him that it was him. His face, straining for orgasm. That’s what I think of when I come. Whether or not I want to. When we fought and I cut him out of my life I would still see his face force its way into my visual field every time I came whether or not I wanted it there.
Even during the times I feel turned off by him, I’m still turned on by him. Angry with my body for reacting. The thought of him makes my cunt clench. Actual him, in the presence of me, makes me pussy flood. My body screams at me to let him in. And so I do.
I never called him the best lover. Never put him on a pedestal or aggrandized him or told pretty lies about who he is. He’s troubled, damaged, and flawed. He comes with as much or more bad as he does good. My Favorite Lover is not the best lover, he’s not the best human. He’s not the most skilled, graceful, caring, supportive, pleasing, sensual, or handsome. But he’s my favorite.
He’s my Favorite Lover.