I wanted to be ready. I missed the feeling of being kissed, touched, licked and caressed. I craved the first thrust that took your breath away. I had an aching to feel the ecstasy of riding the waves of a good O, bringing me up, down and back around again. Yes, I wanted to be ready.

I thought that because I was older and had displayed self-control with so many others that I finally earned some care free fun. I’m too close to 30 to confuse lust for being in-like. Good sex does not and will not equal a relationship this time. Yet, here I am again wanting more than just the climax.

Jill Scott is playing on repeat in my head:

“Why does my body ignore, what my mind says? I try to keep it intact, but I’m here in this bed. I need to listen.”

But my body refuses to listen. It desires the feelings of his hands on my skin, pulling my hips backwards so that he can plunge deep into my ocean to find my treasure that has been buried for so long. We are connected if only but for this moment of…..can it be called passion? That would involve some type of emotion besides lust in my opinion. It should include something more than just raw physical desire. Shouldn’t it?

It doesn’t though. It’s supposed to be fun. Unbridled, no strings attached fun. But there are always strings. The type of strings that hook me and reel me in slowly, so that I fool myself enough just to think that I’m able to get away. That I’m strong enough to resist wanting to know more about him. To fight the urge to see what we could be like outside this bedroom.

Unbeknownst to him, the desire is there. Not just for his hands, his lips and his tongue tricks, but for his laughter, his dreams, and his friendship. But I’m not a teenage chick that gave up the goods in hopes for more, I’m a consenting adult that knew I would eventually want more and went for it anyway.

I so wanted to be ready.

Sylvia J.

Image Source: Liquid Metal”, Vogue Australia, November 1998. Photographer: Tony Notarberardino. Model: Aurelie Claudel.