Making Love

By sash.

As much as I will always be unbearably excited by men smacking me and calling me a bitch as they ejaculate all over my breasts, there is quite an entirely different sort of satisfaction when a guy looks into my eyes, strokes my hair and then paces himself so that we can come together. Damian makes love to me (his term not mine) and it’s like I’m a different person when I’m with him. I am beautiful, not hot, not sexy, not fabulous. I am a person, not a horny slut, not a vixen, not a goddess (although all of them are compliments graciously given in their own way. Thanks, you know who you all are).

I curl up on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. I wake up in the middle of the night and sleepily call him “sweetie”. But don’t worry I’m not getting soft in my 26 year old dotage even though I know this is sounds like a really sappy post.

The point is, I don’t often “make love” and admittedly, I’m quite enjoying the novelty of it. An overdose of Mills & Boon novels in my lusty adolescence has made me slightly allergic to the concept -- making love is what married people do, its light-off sex and is so…so absolutely pedestrian. I’ve debated this with Damian, about why we make love instead of just fuck. We haven’t quite reached any sort of concrete conclusion, but maybe it’s because we keep having these discussions late at night when his dick’s inside me and (naturally) it’s quite hard to concentrate.

Anyway, it’s just nice to know that I am still capable of gentle, tender physical behaviour towards another living creature that isn’t my cat. Maybe I’ve come full circle and have become jaded by too many gratuitous flings. Now meaningful, communicative sex has become sexy. (Gasp!) I hope this doesn’t mean I’m on the slippery slope towards becoming a Desperate Housewife. Maybe I should start baking muffins and reading the Bible for cheap thrills.