There are never declarations of love. No promises or comparing what we have to anything else. No discussions of our pasts, or future, or our present, except what happens when we are together.
He doesn’t give me sex or orgasms. He just offers it. It’s there for the taking. And I take it, greedily.
He touches me everywhere. My hand, my elbow, the back of my neck. His hand runs the length of my leg, up my thigh, then down to repeat the motion. It feels good on my skin, it feels good on his hand. But, it is not urgent, it is not demanding.
We both know we have as long as we want. We can see each other all night, or for an hour, or tomorrow. So, we take our time. Long, velvet kisses. Pauses to talk or laugh or listen to a verse of a song.
Everything is soft and easy, languid in its lack of demand. I can do with and to and for him what I want. And take what I want as well.
I feel guilty about it – about the way I am in bed with him. I tell him this after ride myself to one more orgasm. Because, usually, it is a two-way street, I give as much as I get. But, with this man, I simply take.
His fingers plunge into me, and I find myself fucking them. I know, on some level of consciousness, that I am doing this. Some part of my brain realizes that I am simply making myself come on him. But, I keep doing it.
Often, after I come, he asks, “Are you alright?” This puzzles me, but I think it is because it is apparent I am lost in a world of my own.
I am using his body. I straddle him, I suck him, I taste the skin on his throat and grab handfuls of his hair, grind against his leg.
He finds the spot inside me that creates the tension in my pussy, that makes my thighs tighten, that pulls an almost burning sensation from my belly down. And I realize I don’t care if it is turning him on, if it is what he wants. I know it is what I want, and I reach down and shove his fingers even deeper into me, knowing tomorrow I will be raw and sore to the touch.
And when he is inside me, I know I am being a selfish, greedy lover, something I don’t think I have ever been before. I do what feels good to me, I put his dick where it feels the best, move the way that I like, grinding on him until I get what I want.
I tease my clit, I put my fingers inside me beside his cock, it is all about me and what I like. I’ve never touched myself so much when I am not alone. I suppose I could stop, not be this way, pay more attention to what he wants.
But, I do not.
I go to his bed knowing that my orgasm is there, I go after it. It is not him making love to me so much as me masturbating, using his body, fucking him in the way that makes me come, the way that makes me happy, the way I want.
I feel guilty, not enough to stop doing it, but still, I feel as though I should do more for him, be giving and selfless in bed. I shouldn’t be so determined to just do what feels good to me, I should ask what he wants, what he likes, what he fantasizes about or what he wishes I would
I tell myself that, I plan to, I really do. But, then we are together, and my mind simply doesn’t go there, to a sexually altruistic place, to the place where I try to be a good lover. I just get myself off.
I’ve never been a user of people, for any reason. I don’t like that part of my personality that would want to do that. Yet, I do it with this man. It is a confession – that I am being a selfish woman. But, I find that is what I need right now in my life. I want, I need, to paraphrase the song, be the sistah who is doing it for myself.
And as long as he will let me, I will keep getting what I want from him.