Note: This post is intended for mature readers regardless of age.
I needed something hot and quick tonight.
And I wanted it to be you.
I couldn’t help but think of our last romantic sex-encounter, all 8 minutes of it. It was mostly very good, and then it was weird. And in that moment, instead of focusing on the weirdness of it, I decided to enjoy it for what is was: a hot and wet mid-afternoon joy ride to boost our metabolisms and help digest our buffet lunch.
We pigged out at one of our favorite restaurants, eating more than we should; knowing that we’d pay for it later. Why do we insist on over-eating even when we know the consequences will land us on the toilet for a god-awful bout of indigestion?
Back at the house, we settled in for a varied exchange of information – I love how we educate each other. It’s definitely a cornerstone of our connection.
And I was distracted by your eyes, by the shape of your lips, by how much I wanted to kiss you – so I gave into the moment and kissed you. And I didn’t want it to stop. But I knew that my time was limited. It always is, at that time of afternoon. My grownup responsibilities knocking loudly at the door, like Mormons coming to evangelize while you’re trying to get a particularly fussy baby down for a nap. It’s always a cause of frustration when all I want to do is lose myself in an afternoon of you.
You pressed your palm on my chest and then ran your hand down the curve of my breast. I didn’t want to think about having to leave, but in reality, I was already gearing up for tearing away from the moment. And then you hooked a finger in my belt loop and said: “Let’s go.”
I was delighted.
And immediately frustrated.
And decided to play it coy to balance both of those overwhelming emotions.
“Go? Go where?” I asked shyly as you tugged me across the living room and towards your bedroom.
“You know. And you can’t blame me this time. You started it.” You answered me cool and collected, as if there was nothing else on your mind but this moment.
And I hated the way I envied you.
In your bedroom, you let go and started taking off your clothes.
“Um, I have about 8 minutes before I have to leave. Do we have enough time?” I asked it using my motherly tone, hating that it secretes through my words in moments like these. As if all I am is rules and procedures, responsibility and consequences. All I wanted to do was rip my clothes off and roll around with you in bed and forget the rest of the world. And instead, I’m standing there looking at the clock giving you a toe-tapping schoolmarm expression.
“I’m sure we can manage it.”
Can I just tell you how much I loved the fact that you answered me that way?
It would have killed me to hear you say something like, “Well then, let’s forget it.”
And when it was done, you dressed and left the room, leaving me alone to collect myself.
That was the weird part. I felt discarded, abandoned. And it’s silly, because there wasn’t any time available for post-coital snuggles. There was only time to clean up, dress and leave. I can definitely see your point of view on that. I could even already feel my mentality changing towards what I needed to be for the next engagement of life – the part of my life that doesn’t include you.
Maybe my feelings at that time weren’t so silly after all. Maybe they were prophetic…seeing as you decided to move on without me just a few days later.
It’s funny how actions can sometimes convey what’s really on people’s minds before they even have time to figure out what’s already on their mind or face it.
Hot and fast – that’s how I would describe our last time together. And while I’m dealing with the shivers tonight as colder weather settles in, what I wouldn’t give for another 8 minutes with you. Knowing that it will never happen again leaves me colder than you leaving me alone in the room ever could.