I’m feeling him again.

As he plunged into me as gently, yet deeply as possible, I felt his long, hot shaft more acutely than ever.  It was smooth and soft, yet full and stretching.  It felt like a cross between a hard velvet and thick, viscous cream.   I tried to articulate the sensation, but only pulled him closer to me and kissed his scruffy neck.  It had been 11 days since we’d last connected our bodies and in that stretch of desert pass I had seen mirages of separation, but now I’d passed through it and realized they were truly only visions, not reality.

I’m healing ever so slowly, but message received: there were toxins in me, and two nights ago they boiled inside of me.  My visions of separation did not make me sad; only the blissful nothingness of apathy touched me.  I told him I’d rather be alone that night, “sorry,” and after Peyton’s long lashes met chubby cheeks for the last time that day I went to lay on the couch, a frown carved on my face, but happy I didn’t have to pretend.

And then the phone rang.

Fuck. Shit. Damn.

I was 99% pissed that he was even trying to figure me out.  I answered anyway.

The chat was filled with long, awkward silences until I finally relented it’d probably just be better to face weird silences in each other’s company rather than on the phone.

He arrived with a worried look on his face and left with a smile.  I let something pass from my psyche that night which I had been holding close for too long: I’d felt like a failure that I couldn’t figure us out and I was mildly traumatized by a sense of mistrust which clung to him like the day-old cologne.

He admitted to being deliberately evasive sometimes with me and withholding all the facts, an old defense mechanism he’d used when living at home.  It was as if someone had released a hundred balloons from within me and as I let his words sink in I felt as light as those balloons.  That was what I haven’t been able to put my finger on all this time; he was being opaque, I wasn’t making it up.

I feel for The Neighbor’s plight with me sometimes: a data-, facts-driven guy with severe trust issues surrounding opening up dating a woman who’s highly intuitive and sensitive to her surroundings.  A different woman may never have noticed his little slights of hand — about literally nothing, I might add — and there would never have been a rift.  But alas, I’m me and there was.

The dodging he does is a limping vestige of compulsive lying from his childhood, something we do when we feel powerless.  Lying (and hiding) makes us feel like we have agency in a family in which we may have less than we should or want.  Grown ups do it, too for similar reasons (all things being equal that we’re decent folks and not out to hurt anyone), and sometimes even during times of stress.

In the end we decided neither of us wanted to give up.  We haven’t tried our hardest yet and we both believe that if we can figure out this “happiness” thing, then we’d have one helluva relationship on our hands.

The following morning I woke up and was sick again, but to a much lesser degree.  The emotional purge had the desired effect on my physical body as I’d hoped, I was healing a little faster it seemed.  Or not.  I suppose it makes no difference if there’s a correlation, except that one fed into the occurrence of the other.

When I crossed the little lawn and passed the building between us last night in the slightly warm dusk with my little overnight bag over my shoulder I felt light, excited to see his face.  The dread was all gone.

We went and ate dinner, me gingerly so, and I needed to lie down when we got home.  “I feel like a baby after a meal,” I said.  “I’m exhausted.”  He laid behind me stroking my side waiting for me to feel better.

The love I felt, the patience, the sweetness struck me.  I knew he felt better, too, from our little release the night before.  I told him to take off my bra and he fondled my breasts a little and I could feel my energy coming back a little.  I rolled onto my back and stroked his erection through his shiny, see-through underpants.

He was loving and gentle, made sure to touch me in all the places he knew I loved, his beard scratched my face and I inhaled his clean scent.  When he pushed into me I was still nervous about my belly, but she remained calm throughout and TN’s careful restraint was rewarded with multiple orgasms which surprised even me.

When we were done he lay to my left and my legs were hitched over his, his cock buried deep inside of me.  We lay like that for as long as we’d coupled talking.  “I love you, TN,” I said.

“I love you, too, Hy,” he answered.

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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15 thoughts on “I’m feeling him again.
    1. Yeah, I’ve been light as a feather ever since. AND my gut issues are resolving! Could be coincidence, but I’d like to think they’re a little more connected than that.

  1. That’s beautiful. And shows that our mental and physical states are often connected. Glad you talked, glad you realize you’re not crazy, and even more glad that you’re starting to feel a bit better. ((HUGS))

    1. Thanks, Kayla. Realizing that there were legitimate signals I was picking up on made a world of difference for my peace of mind. I think he realized their impact, as well. So far, so good since the talk! xx

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