Bunches and bunches
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2023-03-18 21:20:40 (UTC)

Uni-Dimensional Me

Cultivation I began in my youth, now on full display melted away from me. The etiquette of being a significant other, meeting family, caring for the kids sloughed off as did the film of debauchery I normally wash away in the shower. It was my force of will, my ardent desire to have a more meaningful encounter that loosened my grip on his shoulder, my teeth on his chin. My heart yearned for the connection forged in making love and my loins would burn us both down to glowing embers if allowed the chance. My teeth played about his kiss capturing then delicately returning his succulent bottom lip, while my breathless moans filled his ear. After my rolling eyes returned to his gaze, I watched him draw closer to his finish, to mine as well, and professed my feelings, and he his, and then we succumbed, his slightly ahead of mine.
Rationally, emotionally, I feel the need to cement our feelings, pull the soul from the stone and make it immortal. Still some nearly three years in now, and all I seem to want to do is ever more touch and passionate release. I have tired of nothing more than not having sex frequently enough with this older body no longer as up for the eternal romp as I once was. Yet, I want it viscerally, talk of it, think of it, without shame and certainly without end. My skin, so ravenous for his touch, the lightest of his breath upon me ripples into a peak, shaking like a landslide. Were he a drug, my life should be ruined completely, were he of a mind my life would be upended, instead he is a welcome addition and my life putters on, more joyfully, with a knowing bounce in my step. My laughter rings out merrier, my temper dampened, and my heart soaring, I live my technicolor dream.
Laughingly far from perfection, my life and loves live in the reality of absurdist mid-life. My day-to-day filled full of appointments and time crunches, logistics and errands, my nights are abandoned to wanton sexuality. I consume sex without reason, feel lust light up each nerve ending and routinely dish out and proudly bear the marks of the war that is sex.