Makeup sex with my Favorite Lover. And Zoe saw all that she had made. And it was good.
We fight viciously. Two fragile, delicate souls so desperately in love. It starts with me making some offhand remark, not thinking about how it will feel for him to hear it. His retaliations are extreme. He goes for the jugular.
In response, I take the high road, which infuriates him. I pepper the road with perfectly placed thumbtacks so it looks like I’m the good guy but I still get to sink in barbs without taking responsibility for them.
I’m the bad guy.
We have flayed each other with hate, but never really in the same space. He has mumbled things that I have asked him to repeat. I have heard him make comments. Mostly it is the digital space that causes the conflict.
Our twisting of each other’s words. We are too smart for our own good. So smart we think we know one another better than we do.
I love him but can’t stand the alcoholism and it makes me mistreat him, which helps nothing. Again I repeat to myself:
“What would love do here?”
And when I listen to the answer I feel like a fucking asshole.
I love him. I love him so truly and deeply it terrifies me.
Days sober when I talk it out with him. Show him where his words are and what they did to me. How they will be with me and where it will impact us.
He sobs. I see him get it.
“I know we can be awful to each other. We can say the smartest, cruelest, meanest, deepest things to each other. Of course we can. THAT IS NOT WHAT I AM HERE FOR.” I bellow.
He gets it. The love pours.
At some point somehow he says something about how I feel free with him. I tell him I absolutely do not.
“You’re married and we’re having an affair. It’s an impossible thing for me to deal with.” I say.
He looks at me incredulously.
“Well how the fuck do you think it is for me? Some kind of cakewalk? It’s intense and it’s constant and I have absolutely no idea how to navigate any of this.” he says, sobbing, more emphatically and more directly talking about our situation than he ever has before.
How did I never get until just now that our relationship really wouldn’t exist if we didn’t feel the same way for each other. Never would he take the risks he does. Nor would I fly halfway around the world and devote so much time to sitting around waiting for him.
Why does any of this happen? How can you explain two human beings being so deeply tolerant of one another?
Can you quantify love?
During the makeup sex we talk about cock size for some reason. I tell him his cock is slightly above average cock size as far as global size.
“And that’s good for you?” he asks, innocently, eyebrows raised. This side of him is one of my favorites.
I just shoot him an eyeroll.
“You know boys are sort of self-conscious about their cocks…” he says, not dropping it completely.
“Do you KNOW what Favorite means?” I ask him, smiling.
And fucks me. And it is good. Oh so fucking perfectly good makeup sex.
“Twelve more days.” I say, after midnight. I don’t know why I say it. Maybe to try to get him to appreciate me even more? I’m awful.
“Don’t remind me. Oh why did you have to remind me.” he moans.
The makeup sex is sweet and good. He promises me special cunnilingus moves and then announces them with his mouthful of my pussy.
“These are my special moves.”
He pulls me into long, edged out orgasms. He purses his lips around my inner labia, grazing my clitoris over and over, edging me into a frenzy. It feels like he is punishing me for the fight.
He finds my plateau, gets the flywheel churning and now he can do almost anything with his mouth and I will come. Again and again, full-body, intense, shuddering orgasms.
The makeup sex continues with him kneeling over me and shoving his cock in my mouth. That makes it sound much more aggressive than it ever is. His body language is never aggressive. Even when focused and working for his orgasm, even when jackhammering his cock into me, the energy behind it is intense but not aggressive.
No, there is no real shove. He kneels over me and I find his cock and engulf it with my mouth. I suck him hard and fast, pulling him all the way out of my mouth and slamming him back in, which pulls his breath from him and is the thing that will get him off.
But I don’t get him off with my mouth. Instead he flips me face down and thrusts into my pussy, dripping with his spit and my juice. Both of us are desperate for contact, for reconciliation, for that fuck that will squeeze all the malice out of us.
So I arch my back and fuck that cock.
Slam my ass back up into his hips while he hammers back down into my cunt. Moans devolve into grunts and then quiet. Sweat. Heat. Purpose. Then only the sounds of skin smacking fill the air, just the fuck.
Both of us faster and faster until he pulls out with a yelp and comes all over my ass. It’s good makeup sex. Very good makeup sex.
Again we fight. I am not sure I started it. I asked him questions about what he was doing with his phone. Had something to say about it.
He’s in a fragile transition period. Has fucked up his life but can’t stand to hear anyone else give him advice about what to do now.
He won’t talk it out with me. Tells me to fuck off a thousand times. Blocks me. Storms out. Drinks.
He’s right in that I don’t know how much it hurt him and it takes this for me to see. But he’s wrong in that we can come back from it.
We can’t come back from it.
I can’t come back from it.
I can’t be with someone who treats me like that. Who handles conflict like a child. I can’t be with someone who can’t take a step aside and talk it through. Find the upsets and pain points and massage them. I cannot relate to someone who can’t get off it, can’t self-reflect. Someone who has stored away so much pain and trauma that any conflict is an excuse to offload. Don’t want that in my life.
Instead he just glosses it over. Tells me he doesn’t want to do a port-mortem.
There is no way back from it.
Even after I apologize he stews in his pain and rubs things in my face. Some related. Some not. Anything I bring up is immediately shut down. There is a double standard.
He’s sleeping, now. He’s perfectly able to sleep. I am not. He doesn’t see it.
I know that if I leave now it will be over for good. I know I have to be sure. Not sure. Torn asunder.
He has been in an abusive, toxic relationship for so long that he doesn’t know how to do anything else. I try to give him opportunities. Forgive so much. Take the high road. Be a bigger person. But I do not want to be.
I do not care anymore.
I care about all the times I have sat waiting for him. All the times I have heard him lie to me. The money I have spent. The hope I have bled.
I ask myself again “What would love do here?” and the answer comes back resounding. It’s not for me to increase the love. It’s for him. I have done enough. It’s time for me to love myself. Love would make me leave.
He tries to initiate some kind of makeup sex. Point blank I don’t want him.
I don’t want him.
It breaks my heart. The sustained consistent desire was the meat of us. That’s what I love about him. I love that he wants me and I want him all the time. That is why he is my Favorite Lover.
And now I don’t feel it. I feel an ever-widening, deep numbness. I am learning to protect myself against him and I’ve reached that threshold where it impacts sexuality.
He is outside my trust circle. He has become an enemy. I flinch when he touches me.
I desperately, desperately want to see a way back.
He suggests the day after our fight that we meditate on what we love about each other. I am pleasantly surprised that he wants this, but it also makes me think that he needs to think of things he likes about me due to his doubt in the relationship right now, and is projecting by thinking that I too need this.
I don’t. Trying to play the game anyway, I sit in front of a blank sheet of paper for an hour and can’t think of a single thing I love or like about him. The hurt is too loud.