I wake in a hot sweat, wondering if I came in my sleep.
In dreams—so sexy—we are rocking and the phrases turn us to water.
We are mid-orgasm the whole time. Never-ending throbs. Weak knees from the underworld of desire. Manifested hot, delicious.
I hear the alarm going off in my bedroom.
I told her last night, “I want to make you come in all the ways there are to make you come.”
She answered, she wants me to make her come in all those ways.
We will find new ways of coming—ones that have never been before. I delight in this knowing.
That was after she came twice on the couch. She was holding to me. She was pushing herself against me. My pelvis moving against her thighs, her core grinding against my pubic bone. I felt the breath of her moans into my neck.
Before she comes, she turns my head so her mouth is against my ear. I hear the depth of her exhales, the sound of her reaching orgasm—uninhibited. A low, transcendent tone.
In this moment, I am alive for this.
And she lets me be deserving of it. My body responds in longing to be deserving of it all. I am perched on the precipice of her pleasure, in sheer anticipation of the event commenced in her scream.
Sitting, thinking, writing, I see the sun approach and feel the tingle of sweet soreness in my hips. My muscles ache in waves.
My favorite game. My playground. My MVP sport. Now, to have a partner who can make me electric with only a look. When her eyes switch to the dark heat of longing, I become a pool; joy and death and rebirth and sacred pleasure I could have never dreamed.
I know, I need to shower soon. Could I stay contained in the fire of this delectable sweat for just a moment longer?
The thought of one extended lick of her stomach up to her chest from our heat sets my whole body pulsing.
She said, in my bed, “I love feeling you inside of me, all the ways you’ve been inside of me.”
I would crawl into her if I could. I would slide my body deep, touching the volcanic core of her. I would have her erupting all around me.
This is not sex. This is not fucking.
This is spiritual.
This is what it feels like for love to be energy—stretching the bounds of what we thought we knew. Diving through barriers of consciousness and pain. Grief.
This is activation. This is the embodiment of healing.
Every time I touch her, it feels like the first time. Still, it is as if I have always been right here. Inside countless past lives, I have been a constant—a participant observer—pleasuring her for centuries.
Learning her, with diligence, so I could do it again, now, this time.
My structured day awaits me. I cannot delay any longer.
I feel the memory of devouring, licking into her wet mouth. And then. And then.