I go back in tomorrow. Belle told me on Friday, so that’s a month out and nine (so far) orgasms.
She observed last night over dinner that I didn’t seem to like being out as much as I like being in. It’s true. It’s not that I haven’t enjoyed the orgasms Belle’s let me have (especially the last couple), and being able to feel the penis whenever I want has been nice (as has been the uninterrupted sleep). But that’s not how I’m wired anymore. Now, I’m in it for the want. For the not having. For the everything but.
Over the past month, I have had periods of feeling desire and frustration, but they’ve been short-lived. A few days at most before Belle and I fucked or she let me take care of myself (only two of the nine have been by my own hand, thought I might get another that way before tomorrow). Yesterday morning, she woke me up by stroking the peachy fuzz on my ass where its cheeks and my legs come together. I rolled over a bit and she fiddled with the penis. One thing led to another and soon she was coming hard on my fingers. The penis was as stiff as it gets and I was cleaving to her side in a very familiar way, surging with the need to fuck her. I knew it was going to happen, but at least as much of me wanted it not to. For her to leave me that way. She didn’t and I came really well.
There must be a term or set of words to describe this feeling. When one decides they don’t actually prefer the destination as much as the travel. The unending trip to the mall looking for the unfindable perfect ski jacket. Traipsing through the woods with your rifle and never finding a deer. Forever connecting though airports and never arriving to the vacation. I guess that’s me now.
Sitting here at the fulcrum point between the ebb and flow of my own sexual desire, I can say with all honesty that she could never let me come again and I’d be OK with it. More than OK.