November 25, 2019

I Want You to Touch Me.

She needs to stop updating her Facebook every day.

She keeps stumbling across the same updates from a random website she opted for that reminds her that the average couple is intimate about 54 times per year.

The average married couple may only do that 18 times per year—but, in order for them to be this united, though, they would need to hobble off to one of the many chapels on one of the corners in this major city.

So, is it wrong to feel left out of this when it’s been over a year since the last time she’s even felt able to touch her other one in inappropriate ways she’s seen on an episode of one of those shows she was watching? They’ve been together for almost eight years; she knows that she needs to stop overthinking so much. She can’t control everything—especially his pants.

Maybe, she’ll get what she wants tomorrow if she just says goodnight to him in that magical way she’s been trying so hard to pull off. It does make her wonder, sometimes, what they’ve been living for.

Making love can completely clear the mind, while bringing two people closer together. It also releases those hormones that can help to make him feel closer to his partner.

She already feels like he’s her lobster. Most days.

When she continues to obsessively look at her social pages all day and count baby after baby after baby that people can’t seem to stop shooting out, the need to rip off his belt in order to tear off his pants lowers by the hour.

She doesn’t want to be intimate with him just to make a duplicate. She just wants to be able to touch him in the loving ways that normal couples seem to do in life.

TV and movies don’t help either. They can’t watch a single anything on their television where the characters aren’t all over each other 10 minutes after the title flashes across the screen. This really just makes the urge for him grow more by the hour, making her feel like a horny teenager all over again. When she looks at him, with her puppy dog eyes in the hopes that he gets the hint, he just continues to watch whatever, unaware of what is on her mind—a typical guy.

He’s like a drug to her; when she gets his attention, she’s really happy for a while. When she doesn’t, it’s like the world’s falling apart and she doesn’t know what to do.

She wants to be craved by him. She wants him to think about kissing her as much as she thinks about kissing him.

She has tried to talk about this topic. When she tucks him into bed at night, she can hear him start to mumble about where the cat is as she calmly lays in a straight line on her side of the bed. She begins to slyly rub at his leg. Then, she slowly rolls over, trying to bring out her inner Aphrodite. She prepares to make her way to the spot no one likes to hear other people talk about. Two seconds later, her fingers are shooed away. This makes her feel like she needs to take a class on how to get into a man’s pants sometimes.

She retreats. She didn’t make it a big deal, when really it was breaking her heart. She gives their cat a goodnight pat on the head and slumps back to her chair, holding back the tears. She sinks down and then just listens to him snore from two rooms away. She knows she’ll have to be back there soon, even though they have another bed. He has too much crap on that one for her to move, though. She wouldn’t want to interrupt their cat’s little tent they compiled onto it.

She knows she didn’t fall in love with him because she was lonely and lost. She fell in love with him because after getting to know him, she realized she wanted to make him a permanent part of her world, a road she knows they’re on and some rocks she feels he could be taking a rest on at times.

She knows she loves him; even potatoes aren’t always perfect.

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