Note: This post is intended for mature readers regardless of age.

“I like feeling special.”

It’s what you confirmed to me while we were talking and kissing in your bed.

I like that feeling too.
There’s nothing much like having an opportunity to feel special.

And even though I am pretty sure you’ve had many more bed partners than I have, you do a really good job of making me feel special and unique when we share bed-space.

And we should be confident that those opportunities together are truly unique, and we should revel in the special feelings, because for those moments shared, we’ve chosen each other. And they have been beautiful happy moments; moments of raging desire and tender snuggles.

I’m still not sure how we manage the balance between two such different perspectives of sex, the fine line of fucking and making love. And maybe it isn’t a balancing act after all. Maybe, instead, it is a teeter-totter, a see-saw between the two.

Back and forth, in and out, enough that both our Id’s and Ego’s are satisfied with the experience.


Our conversation is a mix of dialogues from a porn movie and the Real World.

We covered protection last time, but I mentioned it again this time in preparation for what I hope to be: a next time.

“Next time, we’ll have to use a condom. I’m having my IUD removed.”

“We can get one now, if you want,” you offered generously.

“Nah. Next time is will be fine enough.”

I was being greedy. I wanted to feel you.

I was being generous. I wanted to give you a opportunity for mental preparation, a kind of “we’d better enjoy this, because it won’t happen this exact way ever again.”

Come to think of it…
Nothing ever happens the exact way ever again.


Feeling you inside of me challenges me to accept new dimensions of myself. My senses are pushed to the next level; everything pulses as if about to explode.

I told you this time, “This is the stuff that magic is made of,” because I couldn’t figure out a way to describe it any better; and “ohh, this feeeellls soooooo goooooodddd,” seemed trite and cliche.


I went all-girl on you and cried.
I didn’t mean to.
And I’m sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable.
I didn’t want it to.
But I couldn’t help myself.
Somewhere along the way…

with all the pressures of real life,
with all the insecurities of being me,
with all the unknowns of my future,
with all the denials of my real feelings,
with all the past rejections of my heart,

our shared moment called me out;
and I gave into…

the beauty of confidence,
the pain of your aggression,
the sensual nature of my womanhood,
the hunger for your body,
the pleasure of our union,
the comfort of being held,
the tenderness of our relation to each other.

I was tapped.

And the tears came.
And I wasn’t sure what to do.
And I didn’t think you would mind,
But I was still scared that you would.

My vulnerability had been stripped bare.
I had nothing left.

And I was overwhelmed by the raw-glory of the moment.

(and I was happy to share it with you — it’s easy to feel that way when I feel sure that I’m wanted)


I am heading to the doctor this week to take care of that damned IUD.

I was surprised to get one so quickly, but it most certainly needs to happen. I’m not sure whether I should worry about coming up with a story explaining the bruises you left on my thighs; or, if I should just…not worry about it.

She may decide to commit me, if I told her they make me feel special.