Come Close

It’s the third time he has left her in the wet patch. She feels embarrassed that rather than biting the pillow, she has been sucking the corner of the duvet. She looks to her right and smiles at where he has been lying all night. She is lying. Her arm wedged between the mattress and the pillow, he pillow sandwiched between her arm and her head. She hasn’t moved since she opened her eyes, scared to disturb the cosiness in case it forces the day upon him and he remembers to leave. She wants him upon her again. Eyes closed remembering. Bitter.

 

He always does this and for a second she allows her passion for him to be redirected and she hates him; he has left her too soon again.

He always does. He always manages to arouse her to a point near orgasm but it all finishes before she does. She has actually never had an orgasm, although she is sure she has come close without coming. Its like the first cigarette she tried, she knew instantly it wasn’t a full-fat-hard-core-tar-filled cigarette and suspected immediately that it was a skinny slut  (that’s what they called lights at school) and she was right. Without having tasted it before, she knew it was weak.

 

She had heard enough people talk about it and had asked enough questions, because she was curious before she was brave enough to try it. So while smoking a cigarette and achieving an orgasm are not synonymous is many ways, for her she had experienced a weak potency when breaking both virginities and as she realised this and watched him grunt and leave, she lay back, realising, the best was yet to come.

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About joberlowbo

A gypsy twitches and throws a needle to the sky. Stitching time and sewing sides, With laughter we dry our tears, Strangle our fears and confront the mirrors smears. Chocolate smudged cheeks. Skin on skin. Sketch pad. Memories fade and are replayed inaccurately and it is actually. Ok.
This entry was posted in beauty, love, poetry, sex, smoking and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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