So…sex.

Or, “How W Stopped My Head from Imploding.”  Or maybe I should make that, in honor of this morning, “Exploding.” Though of course this ain’t just about this morning’s sex.  And, in a way, it’s almost not about sex at all (even though, yeah, it is.)  Confused yet?
Yeah, it’s about the actual act of sex. It’s about W using my ass and my cunt and my mouth. It’s about him fucking and fucking and fucking me until my head stopped being in that place.  It’s about him making me fuck myself and making me come and come, demanding I come, forcing me to come. It’s about being in this twilight space where I am all body and everything else goes away except him and what he is doing to me and making me feel, because while he’s doing that, my head can’t be there.  It can only be with him.
It is like while he is reaching into my cunt and ripping my body open with an orgasm he is also reaching into my head and holding me very very gently, cradling me, soothing me, quieting me.  Focusing me, and all there is is he and I and everything else goes away.  It is amazing to me that while his hands are so hard, while they alternatively hurt me and pleasure me, the hands I really feel are the ones in my mind’s eye, the ones that are holding me, so carefully, wrapping around my poor, broken heart and holding it, gently, gently. It is those hands that I wake to in the middle of the night, cradling my head as he draws me into the comfort of his body.  It is the hands that I feel holding me as I cry out all the anguish of this past week.
The sex is amazing, don’t get me wrong. I have been so thoroughly fucked this past week I am amazed that I am still walking around. And, just thinking about him inside of me, thrusting into me when I was so sore the other morning, and still, he fucked me, just because he can–fuck that makes me hot, makes me wet, sitting here writing about it.
But…really…it’s not about the sex at all.  You’ll just have to trust me on this one.