So obviously when I signed up for this adventure, it was because I wanted sex. Missed sex. Needed sex.
But at the same time, I can say that the longer you go without it, the more zen you get about it. (Well, I do anyways).
I can look at sex more distantly, and analyze people’s reactions to it. What drives people to seek it out? What is it about sex that makes people behave the way they do? I could write essays about it. All in a completely unemotional way.
But now? Yeah, now I’ve tasted it again. Now I’m reminded about how awesome it is. I remember what it’s like to have a man’s tongue between my legs. To feel his hard body pressing against mine. To have my breath suddenly catch as he puts his hands or his mouth somewhere unexpected.
And now? He’s all I’m thinking about. Well not him exactly. The idea of him. I want his lips. His hands. His cock. I want them pressed up again me. I want to feel his desire and impatience. I want to be an object. I want to be craved and used.
I’m wishing I didn’t leave him so early yesterday. I’m wishing I’d waited long enough to have him take me again.
And then there’s the insecurity. Not of being liked. But of being wanted. Will he want me again? Will he take me again? I don’t want romance. I don’t want respect. I want him to think about me when he’s touching himself at night. I want him to be distracted by the thought of me when he has an errant sexual thought.
I want him here fucking me. Right now.