Vacation

I am distracted.**

**Editor's Note: (I had "I have been distracted" up on the blog for a while but I'm really not quite sure if that's the correct verbage! It's also in the passive voice and I wasn't totally nuts about that though the distraction was sort of done TO me. But now I own the distraction. So, "I am distracted" is best, I think. Good lord, Janie, write about sex already...)

Merriam Webster says that to distract is to draw or direct (as one's attention) to a different object or in different directions at the same time, or stir up or confuse with conflicting emotions or motives. But honestly, I don’t feel confused or conflicted. I don’t feel like my attention has really been directed towards anyone but, well, myself. Which is GENERALLY where it belongs, right? So if I’ve been distracted, well, then so be it, because right now, I feel happy instead of hopeful. (Hopeful’s great and all but happy goes further in the present moment sometimes.) I feel sore instead of achy. I feel sexy instead of sexually frustrated. I feel fulfilled instead of lacking. And how did this all come to be?

25 year old smiley, smart pretty boy with a gorgeous cock who likes things up his butt.

It’s as if a little “What Does Janie Need Right Now Machine” went and cooked him up.

Great sex is still just great sex, of course. One date is one date. I’m not soooo “rebounding” as to place any crazy amount of meaning on it, to make it be an all-healing, all-encompassing act. But wow. Does it feel good. Sex, that is. And cuddling. And the sweetness of someone so new coupled with that strange, strange familiarity that can happen between any two people who happen to want to enjoy each other’s bodies at the same time. It’s a miracle and it’s not. Because it’s what we were made for. Connections. The moment when two people breathing becomes one person breathing. Simultaneous orgasms. Parts which fit together. Really basic stuff.

Thank goodness for the basics.

He asked me if writing about sex gives it meaning. What a question. I think I answered it in a roundabout way, never really saying yes or no. But now, I think I want to say that the sex already has meaning. Writing about it gives it clarity. I think that’s what it is.

He asked me if I ever blogged the sex as it was happening. I said I had a pornographic memory. That I generally remember every little thing that happens in a sexual encounter. But this one is a bit of a blur. And I like that. Of course, the day I’m thinking more about sex writing than sex is the day I stop writing for a while.

That said…

When he entered me the first time, my eyes just rolled back into my head. His cock, so gorgeous, so hard and so pink, was finally in me. He had taken so much time into getting me off with his mouth, with his hands, so many times before. But I hadn’t yet felt that remarkable fullness. And was it remarkable. I thought for sure he’d fuck fast and hard. That he’d explode in an instant. That his 25 year old taut body would allow him to pound me as rough and tough as he wanted and the need to cum would, well, overcome him. But instead.

Instead, soooo slow. Every. Inch. Marked.

You know you’re getting absurdly wet when you can feel yourself getting wet. With every stroke. Wetter and wetter. It was such a detailed fuck. Simple but detailed. I could draw his cock from how distinctly I felt it inside me. Does that make any sense, dear reader? He introduced his cock to my pussy in such a way that first time that I felt like I really knew it.

As he fucked me, I saw him licking his lower lip, his tongue moving fast across it, his eyelashes fluttering, and his brow furrowed. His mouth would disappear into my ear and lick it and he would breathe hard and hot into it and I’d moan quietly and he’d fuck me a little harder. I was not so loud with him. I didn’t want to be loud. My body, itself, was loud, though. I’d stretch my legs out farther for him so he could fuck me even deeper and he would fuck me harder and faster for a moment, to steal from me another orgasm, but always, he returned to the slowness. Even now, as I type this, I type slower. It felt so fucking divine. Like my pussy was being taken care of.

When he finally came, I must admit, I barely noticed. The look on his face was the same as it was the whole time. There was no huge finish. He finished as he started. Calm, cool, focused. I could feel his cock flutter inside me and that was beautiful. He kissed me and dared to look right into my eyes and dared to smile and dared to let his eyes light up as I said, “I felt every inch of you.”

We went on like this, with mouths, fingers, tongues, pussy, cock, ears, tits, ass, until 4 morning. His mouth and his ass are two other miracles. They work so well. And at breakfast the next day, we both remarked how we felt like we were on vacation...

Vacation. From Merriam Webster: Latin vacation-vacatio. Freedom, exemption, from vacare. A respite or a time of respite from something. Intermission. A scheduled period during which activity (as of a court or school) is suspended. A period of exemption from work granted to an employee. A period spent away from home or business in travel or recreation. An act or an instance of vacating.

So maybe I’m not distracted. Maybe I’m just on vacation.

Giggle.