E was intense. E liked to talk. About everything.
I found this really hard to understand.
I had left a marriage where talking was an indicator of treachery, a dark force to be avoided at all times. Openness, communication, feeling out loud was a punishable offense and the punishments had left me scarred. These days, verbally expressing any emotion caused my throat to constrict. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t do it. I hated it. I hate it.
We had already constructed a type of engagement which was at times volatile. He was used to expressing himself freely and I was not. He thrived on it, lived for it even. He’d push me until I burst and then only when I was done licking my wounds he would reward me with a gentle kiss, a sign that all would be ok…… If I played his way.
The second weekend was a repeat of the first. We got along well, we knew that but then a cloud would descend and we’d fight. Both being stubborn, we’d kick and scream until we were spent. After a long night of fighting until sun up, we lay exhausted in my bed. Maybe I got an hour of sleep but it’s all a bit of hazy. My eyes were swollen from crying, sore from exertion. Why was I doing this? We had been in the war zone and I hadn’t had time to process why I was still there. (I talked to R later and I realized I just wanted someone to talk to me. Even if it hurt.) I didn’t know how to play fair. I hated men and really, he didn’t stand a chance. I’m not proud of it and I was beyond ever believing that all I needed was the right man. I knew it was me but I didn’t know how to fix myself.
Some hours later, I found E cuddling up next to me. He was pushing his hard on against me and half asleep, I responded intuitivaley. He put his cock in me and it made me feel better. After some time taking him from behind I turned to him just so I could smell his neck. E always smelled good. I’m not sure if it was his diet or hygiene (neither of which I stake a claim in) but his skin was always darling. Like a small child, he smelled pure. He was better than me in ways I wanted to believe in but at the same time I knew I was lying to myself. We kept at it and he teased me, staying at the outer edges where I was swelling, wanting him.
‘You’re teasing me’.
But I wasn’t. This was the best sex I’d had for months simply because I did want him. Something, a desperate desire that I couldn’t account for, I wanted real intimacy, love. Even if it was artifice. The words would send me screaming but I wanted the feeling, the feeling that someone cared. I put my arms around his neck and took in his skin. He was sacred to me in that moment. When he came I held on to him as if it were my last opportunity to breathe. I could have eaten his neck for breakfast. So, this is what intimacy feels like. I imagined anyway…. I could only experiment with this idea because he might not hang around which, felt comforting to me.
I was safe for now.