He’s Doing it Wrong

You can’t imagine the arched beauty of your back as you lay spent on the now disheveled sheets.

I’ll keep that pleasure for myself – it’s not for you to see.

A single finger strokes a path along your damp curved skin. You shudder and are tantalized from the moment it begins. Everything is dampened from our efforts to outdo, the level of performance of a time when this was new.

The cursed choice confronts me – to end now or to extend – this most primitive of entanglements of oohs and aahs, and bends.

Some would call it lovemaking – at least the women do, but the fierceness of our motions beg for words of different hues. To make love is to mimic scenes from cinema – of petals, wine, and song, but eager throes of passion relate more to greedy, strong, and long.

Our hearts begin to regulate, our pulses slow their beats. The stillness of the after-moments sends our thoughts to their retreats.

“Does he love me?”

“Does he need me?”

The questions fill her mind.

“Is it too soon to go again?” is the one thought he can find.

This doesn’t mean we don’t love you, it’s just our different way. Your Harlequin scenarios are not part of our DNA. We try to do it your way on Valentine’s and your birthday to name the two. But those efforts don’t fulfill you, at least they rarely do.

Because they’re fake; because they’re false – mere parts we try to play.

We do it ‘cause we know you wouldn’t have us any other way.

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