There are memes floating about the interwebs that say something similar to the above, but apparently the people who make such entertaining re-postables are incapable of avoiding glaring spelling and usage errors. Too bad, that.
But enough about Language. Let’s discuss Math, shall we? Specifically, the number 69.
He is there – on his knees, his face buried in my pussy – at my request.
“Come here and give me an orgasm,” I’d said, and that is exactly what he is doing.
And what he is doing – lapping at my clit, curling his tongue in on itself to slide inside my opening, unfurling it again on the upstroke – is what he knows, from long practice, works.
Except, right now, it isn’t working.
What usually feels like teasingly sensuous soft flutters of his tongue, now feels like tortuous sandpaper scratches. While normally his ministrations would pull forth sighs of pleasure from deep in my chest, they now elicit a tensed-throat groan of discomfort.
What used to be an activity that guaranteed me an orgasm – his oral ministrations have always been one of my favorite things about our sex life – has become anything but a sure thing.
Closing my eyes against the bombardment of thoughts distracting me – Given the severity of your PCOS, said my OB/GYN at my last visit, it is going to be really difficult to tell where those symptoms end and menopause begins – I touch his shoulder. “It’s…” I begin.
What can I even say?
I know I asked you to give me an orgasm, and I know that’s what you’re trying to do, but…
I realize you’re not doing anything different than normal, but right now I feel like my vagina is being attacked by a porcupine.
It’s not you, it’s me.
I’m broken.
I take a deep breath, trying to dislodge the lump in my throat. “I think we need to try something else,” I say.
And, because he is a gem of a man, he looks at my face, kisses me gently on the inner thigh, and nods. “Okay.”
I can feel the tears springing to my eyes but I bat them back and smile at him through damp lashes. Okay, I think. Okay. I can do this.
. . . of blurred pleasure . . .
.
We may shine, we may shatter
We may be picking up the pieces here on after
We are fragile, we are human
We are shaped by the light we let through usWe break fast
We are glass
Like a grain of sand, he was transformed – in the heat of hard-scrabble youth, manipulated by the fires of misguided misandry, and fused on the steel of permissive neglect – into a spun glass cast, one he has worked to chisel out from inside of ever since. Misspent adolescence led to a bewildering adulthood, one he approached with all the reserve and cautious preparation of an infant fascinated by a scorpion.
He had no way of knowing how terribly his choices would sting.