Sex Is Better Than Therapy

Oh, the way this man does what he does.

His hands on my body as though I’m a thing to be worshipped and treasured.

He kisses me passionately. One hand entangled in my hair, the other placed on my cheek.

“Softer,” he implores.

I gently lower my lips to his and we share a sweet, innocent thing of a kiss.  The type of kiss you’d give to someone you love and value.  Not your dirty mistress.

My mind starts to reel. And to think I almost canceled on him today.

I’m in awe of him when we finally do collide.  The way he savors every moment.  The way he responds to my sweetness.  The way he looks at me like I’m special and worthy of this attention.  The way he can see right through me.

Sex for me has always been an uncomfortable experience. I struggle to get outside of my own head and enjoy the moment.  But with him it’s so different. So much more. And the best part is that it isn’t just “fucking”- the passion and intent is sincere. He’s present. He’s not separating himself as many men often do.  He shows up. We are actually sharing.  No one is taking control. It’s fluid.

And after…

He wraps his leg around me while we chat.  About what kind of a man he is.  About what kind of woman I am.  About how I could adjust to live more freely.  Why I am incredible just as I am.  On how he is lonely.  On how he loves spending time with me.

I make sure to ping him after to thank him for his time.  It’s a gift, and I must treat it as such.

He tells me that he is at that stage where he will not want to go a day without contacting me. Even if it’s as simple as a (wave) over Skype.

I speak truthfully and tell him I’m at the stage where he makes my life better just by being in it, even when he’s not around.

Oh boy, this one is going to hurt.

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