venus without furs

I turned your head towards me. You were looking away, and I was so close to you, staring into your eyes. I used just my fingertips to coerce your chin back. I kissed you very lightly, just nipping at your lips, sucking them gently, making it clear I was not about to let you kiss me at your own discretion. You turned your chin away gently, I brought it back and continued. Your cock twitching and growing against my leg with each suck and nip of your lips. You turned your head away again. I bring you back, lock your blue eyes to mine. I have no idea how else to break your anxious preoccupation. You have asked me for sex; why not let yourself overcome your mind, your thoughts, and come to the moment, and why not let me guide you, getting turned on in the process? I finally feel in sync with you, after so many times falling out of sync, your rejections that you don't call rejections, the way you seem to want me and then change your mind. The loss of your lust.

Finally you break contact with my eyes and turn away. "It's too intense," you say numbly. Angry? Depressed? Why can't I seduce you anymore? Could I ever, to the extent I wanted to?

I pull your chin back again, testing-- can I be the leader here, is this something to be overcome? But you turn your head back away, this time with decisive force. You're done.

Don't ask me to love you anymore. A lukewarm love that satisfies you and leaves me empty. I don't want to hope to make love to you again. I don't want to look forward to it. I don't want to ever believe it will happen again. Because now, even when we begin with your consent, you become unresponsive, weird. And then we stop. And you say nothing is wrong. You're just preoccupied. You're just not a highly sexual person. Highly sexual meaning having sex more than thrice a month. I start to distrust myself. I send you away because I am too aroused, I am afraid I'll touch you even though I know you're disinterested. You begin to tell me I pressure you. My heart breaks with remorse at those words. I do not wish to hurt you. I cannot be your platonic boyfriend.

I need to be needed. I need to serve through dominance. I need, I need.

We will be separated by December. Then the winter will come: cold winter in our little attic. And we will be friends, but there will be pain. It will not be new pain, created by separation; it will be the reminder of the inability of love to erase what we already were.