It's a particular kind of disease, chasing those who can't or won't give you what you want.

I find it unnerving, the way that certain flashes of the past clasp their tight fingers around the recesses of my memory and refuse to let go.

She was an amazing lover, and she knew it. I was one in a long line of many women to whom she would dedicate hours to in bed with a singular focus, figuring out all of the vulnerable and tender spots to linger on; all the magical things to say about my body that would relax me into and onto her arms. Fulfilling me sexually while deliberately holding onto her own deepest desires was her way of feeling in control, and the way she maintained her fragile sense of safety. I know the tactic all too well - when you are afraid, it is comforting to be the one with less desire, the person who will hurt less if it all goes away.

I meant to write this as a chronicle of erotic memories, describing the way I smelled and tasted her on me all night after she sat on my mouth and chin, rocking herself into a frenzy. I felt dizzy and intoxicated for hours after that, interacting with the world like a temporary and inconvenient detour on the way back to her body. I think of the way she bent me over the bathroom counter in a dirty hotel room, pushing her fingers into me until I soaked her chest and the floor. The way I suddenly wanted things from her that I had never before found erotic. The way my need for her was so great, I wanted to consume every milliliter of skin and sweat and cum. The way I felt when I realized that she would never want me in quite the same way.

My desire is never so strong as when what I want is just beyond my reach.


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