She wants, just once, to shake this feeling men want her as a sexual being only. At the end of a day just south of bearable, as she finally lay down, sinking into her man won’t be about touching that leads to something else.
Can’t it be about touching for touching’s sake? Affection and appreciation apparently not on the agenda she wants, and fails, to assert. When did what her lover wants now become her cross to bear?
Damned either way, her body cries…
Why is it always about sex?
A caged animal slipping, exposed, nowhere to go. So she gives and receives and they, the various lovers of her heart, compliment her, tell her how sexy she is, how skilled. She barely hears their impassioned murmurs, her mind pushing down the groping squeezes and tantalizing strokes, smiling at them as she weaves a web in her mind to capture these sweet nothings to feast on later.
With the right person, she finds sex transcendent. It’s not that she doesn’t want it, crave it, even find pleasure inside those wavy folds of bliss. Most lovers don’t understand her intense need for affection – then again, they weren’t used for sex as a child, either.
She acknowledges this block, the way the memories exist in her mind like a prey’s resistance, a gift her abuser so generously left behind.
‘Now I lay me down to fuck,’ she whispers to her new lover.
He smiles, kissing her many scars, dark eyes paying them homage. Making different memories, she prays for acceptance. That she will not just get through it, but allow him into her soul.