Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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Sex feels like a pinch. Both literally and figuratively. A pinch when you don't know the person; an awaiting heartbreak for when they'll depart from your vagina and go on with the rest of their life, untouched and unaffected, while you remain fragile, broken, and a little moist.
Sex with someone you love, is still a pinch. A more literal one. That's what the romance books don't tell you. That's what the erotica and women orgasming during her first time, lie about. That's what porn, and movies, and every other Hollywood medium, lies about. Leaving us confused, and feeling a little cheated when we're not coming like a faucet during our first internal thrusting. Finger waggling. You know what I mean.
Now that my nether regions have been explored by Erik a decent amount, it's no longer a pinch. Unless I'm stressed out about something or anxious, but the amount of times where he's actually attempted to park his ship in my harbor while either of those were true and not false, equals to one. The one time when we first had sex and I was an anxious pile of slight dampness and tears (after - not during).
It's hard to tell someone you need more - even harder when the other person is making you feel like your lack of natural lubrication is a "you problem" thing and not an "us problem" thing. Or even that it's a problem at all, because the fact of the matter is, most of the time when a woman isn't wet it's because she's uncomfortable - or the guy that's trying to enter her has the fingering skills of a dead chimpanzee.
"I love you." Erik says to me, kissing me a few times like he's an army soldier leaving for military training. In reality, he's just spent about two minutes trying to put a condom on himself while also attempting to not immediately come into it. It seems like if we don't have sex for longer than a twelve hour period, he lasts about as long as a rotten banana before it gets fruit flies.
Yet, despite my impending lack of orgasm - given his very ripe state, I know I'm going to enjoy whatever we're about to do - because it's with him. And yes, I am cringing at how romantic and sensitive I've become. I think I'll need to go back to the factory to get a reset.
My heart feels like it's beating with his movements; the once nervousness that I would feel whenever we were about to do the tango, having been replaced a long time ago by an excited one. One that is captivated by the memory of what it's like to feel him inside of me. Part of it is (most of it) is a pure shock that something that large is able to fit into a place as shallow as my belly button.
It also makes you feel, full. Not like you've just eaten Thanksgiving dinner and are about one jean button pop from exploding all over the ceiling. But rather, a nice one. One that makes you want to rub yourself like you've just been diagnosed with poison ivy.
"Love you too." I return the sentiment, basically grabbing him by the shoulders as soon as the condom's on and pulling him towards me. Not by the dick, this isn't some weird dog porno. I just want his face on mine; his mouth, his tongue, it feels like it's my drug of choice and I'm a dying cancer patient getting my last wish.
