Lovers Sex Favorite Lover

How Can I Write About Sex With You Now?

How can I write about sex with you now? We have had so much sex I can’t remember half of it. I tell you this and you think you weren’t memorable.

It’s not that. My memory is seared with you. My life has a screen burn-in of you.

We haven’t had enough sex. Will we ever?

Even when you’re inside me I still want to fuck you like I can’t have you.

That time we fucked to the sounds of drilling, nailing, and hammering, and laughed about it. The romance of construction. 

Kissed deeply whilst thunder rumbles and your cock endlessly, perfectly gives me exactly what I need yet never satisfies my need.

How can I write about sex with you now? When I know, now intimately, your fuck face. That thing you do with your tongue and how your left hand works your cock while your right hand joins into the fray on your belly. The way you yell when you come, head jerking back so hard one time you banged it on the edge of the bed and truly hurt yourself and I felt really bad for laughing, but I did anyway while trying to lick your wounds. 

That look of need in your eyes before you explode. I’d do anything to satisfy you.

How can I write about sex with you now? When we’d go six hours at a time. Eight hours. Twelve hours. It’s a blur of desire and orgasm.

I wanted to wake up and fuck you but your addictions got in the way. You couldn’t cope with the mo(u)rning. 

Soon before I left – and I did – it was ME that LEFT. I could have stayed and I did not. I picked myself up and brushed myself off and said I’d be back, but didn’t come back. You begged me to stay and I left anyway. For all my fears that I want you more than you want me – I left.

Soon before I left – I mounted you reverse cowgirl and surprised you. Being on top not my favorite. A view of my hips and ass, parts of me I can’t see, no way to lock eyes and see my own reflection in yours.

“We haven’t done this.” you exclaimed.

“Nope.” I replied, looking back at you over my shoulder.

“Why haven’t we done this?” you asked.

“I’ve been holding out on you.” I admitted.


“Because if I show you everything I have, all that I am, and what I can do, you’ll exhaust interest in me and move on.” I replied.

You were silent, but your rock hard cock spoke volumes. 

How can I write about sex with you now? I have written hate mail to you. I’ve cut you out of my life. I said goodbye and parted ways… and then I just couldn’t bear the thought of living the rest of my life without fucking you again. 

How can I write about sex with you now?

Because I can’t get that moment out of my head. That one where we were both lying on our sides and I had my hand on your hip rocking you into me with satisfying slaps of skin on skin. I can hear the sound now, the sharp, high frequency smacks harmonized with the throb of deep heartbeat and the smoothness of breath.

Where you and I both had our backs arched and bodies separate and all that connected was your cock and my pussy and I felt your tension building and felt you pull out just as you came, splattering the bed with it.

“I came” you always say. As if I don’t know when you come. Me inside you inside me. Fuck I miss you. Tell me you came for me again. Come for me again. Come for me?

We share memories of the times we fucked and they include every part of every place we shared. The kitchen floor. Shower. My work table. The hallway with that horrible mirror. The couch that was too gross for me to bear. Every bedroom.

Not that Ikea chair though. Nor any balconies. Your fault.

Not my dressing room of my own either. My fault.

I regret everywhere I haven’t fucked you. 

I’m angry at the furniture we didn’t fuck upon. 

Dismayed by all the 115 countries I have been inside in which your cock hasn’t been inside me.

How can I write about sex with you now?

When I’ve been angry with you and judged you more harshly than I ever have anyone. We so blocked and distant. Still trust you half the distance I could throw you.

But desire.

Wanting you so badly it hurts. I spent years that way. Now it hurts because I don’t want to want you, but I still do. Or I do want to want you the way I did, but I don’t. Or I’m afraid I will again. I feel it building and fuck if your longer hair and your “homeless beard” (oh come on even if I don’t want to give you money I’d never allow the street as your pillow and you exaggerate anyway you have plenty of support including your own) and your voice and your laugh doesn’t distract me from everything and everyone. 

I know that you’re the only man that can keep up with me. That despite your and my excoriating flaws and unrepairable bilious words…

I want you. 

I want you because you don’t exhaust. Because even when I throw the world at you and I place more on your burdened and delicate shoulders that you could ever handle, you still fucking want me. You endlessly, ceaselessly fuck me. You don’t care if your prostate is exploded and your dick can’t do what it’s meant to. Still, you throw desire at me as though it has never existed before.

For all my lack of trust and endless need to be reassured that men do indeed want to fuck me, for fuck’s sake I know you do. Somehow I know that you can’t live without fucking me. No matter how different the projections we call our lives, I know that need is the same. We are infinitely connected and entwined and we are one and there’s nothing that can derail it. Momentarily maybe, but eventually we will come back to each other. Panting. Wanting.

Both of us marveling at sexual attraction. Drawn to and disgusted by it. We should never be together. Never be the subject of each other’s fantasies. 

And yet…

Lovers in a dying world.

I try to forget. Block you out with desire for other men. Reliable, shallow connection to others that I could never have with you. Men who pay half the bill and show up on time, at my beck and call. 

Yet still you contain something I can never have with anyone and it makes me cry. 

I sob for us.

I fantasize of crushing your enemies. Poking my fingers into their eyeballs until they explode. Setting any of the brutal hitmen I also fuck onto them.  I still want to defend you. Throughout time and space. How can I, though? 

How can I write about sex with you now?

Finally, after months and years and the whole fucking gamut – you looked me in the eyes and I couldn’t meet your gaze. 

Now of all times, you told me that you loved me. 

Shamelessly. Sort of. You warned me before you said it. Said it might be embarrassing. 

And fuck if I don’t too.

I have always loved you.

I loved you before I knew you. Loved you at first sight. 

I’m afraid you’re the only person I’ve ever truly been in love with and that you’re the only person I ever will be. 

Terrified of needing you as much as I do. Me, the isolated. Me, the warrior. The whore.

You asked me if you’re still my favorite lover. I told you that I don’t know. But I suspect you are. How else could we be fucking in the orchard you tend. When you are 80 and I am 75.

That time we were drunk and I was proud of the generic Viagra that I had bought in Turkmenistan that may have been made in India. I pulled it out to brag and you ended up chewing off half a pill. 

“Oh what have I done? It’s late at night and I’ve just eaten erectile enhancement drugs.” You repeated, over and over. I told you this the other day and you forgot it. I threw back in your face that apparently I also wasn’t memorable. Neither my Turkemenistan viagra.

And I braced myself for a marathon fuck, but instead we fucked for thirty minutes and neither of us came and we fell asleep. The irony of that. After our six, eight, even twelve hour sessions. So much for erectile enhancement drugs.

I was spending too much money on mezcal at restaurants and bars and so bought a bottle of it thinking it would last me my whole trip. You were drinking heavily, anyway, so I brought it out to keep you off of cheap beer and disgusting wine. And then we proceeded to polish almost all of it off in one night. When I chastised you, you excused it with alcoholism.

And this, of all things, is what you apologize to me for. 

I had so much fucking fun that night. Even if teary and dramatic. I remember it, and I liked drinking with you. Despaired for your self-destruction – but maybe partly because it had nothing to do with me. Maybe I’m jealous. 

How can I write about sex with you now?

I told you that you haunt my pussy

Again you fill my world. I wake thinking of you. I sleep thinking of you. Dream of you. And of course, I come thinking of you. I come over and over, calling your name. I can’t fuck anyone else without thinking of you.

All the things that have turned me on in life were clues that you exist. 

Yesterday we had phone sex. It was actually the first time we’ve had phone sex. We’ve sent audio clips. We’ve video fucked. 

I was speechless. Inept. So deeply self-conscious it fed back onto itself. Mind racing mouth empty. The one thing I managed to get right:

“I haven’t been this wet since the last time I saw you.”

Write About Sex

I can’t write without you. 

My writing since I left you has sucked balls. (I want to suck your balls.)

I can’t come right without you. Numb and empty.

How can I write about sex with you now?

Stone cold sober under hot bright lights. 

I put pages between us and can’t stand in front of you naked looking into your eyes. You ask me not to turn you into a character and then equivocate into that I can if I need to. Sometimes I need to. Sometimes for all my strength and bravado and experience and perspective I can’t stand the way I feel around and about you. I’m ashamed.

When you pay attention to me my heart pounds and I break a sweat. I feel you seeing every life I’ve lived and splaying all my pretense. I feel things I have no words for. From my crown to my clit and through the floor and the planet, all the galaxies, parallel universes. Nothing and everything at once.

For all that poetry, I’m downright bothered cuz it means you never see how bold, brash, bossy, cool, charming and confident I am. 

I know I make you nervous too. You boast and lecture and distract and storytell and I love it, I fucking love you. You’re not a fucking failure. No one does this to me. 

Yes I want to kiss you long and deep and I don’t care about your rotten teeth or even whether you have them. 

Yes you can fuck me in public. All that kinky sex you want to have with me? Yes.

I consent. 

How can I write about sex with you now when we haven’t had all that kinky sex yet? 

The First Time

The Next Time

The Last Time


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