A tender heart is better than a pissed vagina

No Comment

A tender heart is better than a pissed vagina

 

We met online. 

He was cute, I was smitten. 

The conversation was awesome, nonstop engagement. We talked about everything from sex + love to politics + genocide. 

He was intelligent, I was captivated. 

During our first in-person meeting, something felt a bit off. I tried to ignore it, because the conversation was so damn good. We shared a meal and swapped middle-child stories. He was raised by his grandparents and he learned about sex on the boob tube. I was the product of a once love filled marriage and I read about sex in books. 

I did not feel any sparks, but I felt something. 

He kissed me, I liked it. 

He hugged me, I melted.

But something wasn’t quite right. 

He invited me to his apartment, and although I should have said no, I didn’t. I mean, I was celibate by design, not choice, and I wanted to get laid… badly. So I followed him home. 

We sat on the sofa and talked intermittently while the television watched us, neither daring to make the first move. 

He was tall and handsome, intellectual and worldly. A thinking man, capable of original thoughts, is a rare find. But this was no love connection, of that I was certain.

It was getting late and I was a long way from home. So I was relieved when he invited me to stay. 

He led me to his bedroom, where I slowly removed my shoes and climbed in the bed, fully clothed. He disrobed, unapologetically, and climbed in beside me. 

The heat radiating from his body caused my flesh to sizzle. He inched closer and kissed me. The taste of his mouth was decadent, or it could have been that I was just hungry to be touched. Either way, it felt fucking good and my pussy appeared to be onboard. 

Before long I was naked and he was on top of me. His hardness rested firmly against my thigh and I was giddy!

Our tongues danced as our limbs tangled, for what seemed like forever. Then he paused and whispered, “let me grab a condom.” 

The sound of the wrapper tearing reminded me of an old coke commercial. Popping the top on a hot summer day, sweat dripping, sun blazing… the sound of relief and refreshment. 

I was more than ready.

The room was dark, but the light from the street, set the mood. While I am not typically a visual person, it turned me on to see the lean lines in his arms, the chisel of his chest, while his hands deftly worked to roll the condom onto the length of this member. It was downright pornographic.

He smiled slightly and climbed back in bed. 

There was no need for additional foreplay, we were both raring to go.

I held my breath as he entered me. Oh how I love the feeling of fullness. I was grateful that he took his time, because it felt good, but also because I had been on a sexual hiatus for months. 

He wasn’t as skilled as he was careful. My comfort was a concern for him, and I appreciated that.

We kissed and cuddled, fucked and snuggled. I almost came. He finished with an agonizing look on his face and a hearty growl in his throat.

We slept forehead to forehead with our arms wrapped around each other; which was a first for me. Our breathing was in sync, inhaling and exhaling together. 

Almost everything about this felt right. 

I woke up feeling mighty fine. We fucked again before I headed out. I enjoyed myself. He walked me to my car and hugged me twice. It was nice. 

My pussy was a bit sore, but I expected that. There was some tingling, but nothing major. I mistook the sensation for the “well-fucked” woman feeling. You know the feeling when the pain is more of a feel-good memory, a slight reminder of the fantastic time you had the night before? Yeah, that’s what I thought it was, but it wasn’t. 

I didn’t quite realize my pussy was pissed until we slept together several more times. The tenderness and the discharge became more and more progressive. And yes, I went to the doctor and everything checked out. But there was this nagging voice inside my head that continued to tell me that this was more than casual sex, but less than FWB. 

We talked all the time, but there was no intimacy. It was obvious that we enjoyed one another, but I wanted more than that. I wanted someone to listen and not just hear. I wanted to be the object of desire, and not a seat filler. I wanted to be friends and lovers, confidants and partners, buddies and aces. I wasn’t exactly looking to fall in love, but I wanted it to look and feel like love, I wanted to love and be loved. 

Therein lies the problem.

I knew exactly what I wanted, yet I pursued what I did not want and what did not want me. 

So I did what every brave woman does, I sent an email. 

The email was poetic. It started with all the things I appreciated and adored about him and this thing that we had going. I praised his best qualities and encouraged him to pursue his dreams and aspirations. I talked about all the things we had in common and the parallels of our lives. And I fully expressed myself and unpacked all the feelings that were felt but unspoken. I made it clear that I was aware that we were not destined to be an us. 

In his response he did not disagree, and I loved him for that. He also made it very clear that he wanted to remain friends, and I was relieved about that. 

Only a few days passed before he invited me to hang out again. And I went. And we fucked. And my vagina got pissed. 

This went on for longer than I care to admit. I remained ambivalent, but my pussy didn’t. She was clear on the fact that I was selling myself short. She was fully aware that I was settling for less than I desired and deserved. She was unapologetic in her objection. She refused to sit by and let me cheat myself out of emotional fulfillment, in exchange for temporary pleasure. 

It is hard to live with an aggravated pussy. 

So I broke it off again, this time by telephone. 

He was understanding. He did not try to talk me out of it. There were no declarations of adoration or proclamations of fondness. He was basically polite. We ended the conversation with the usual pleasantries.  

Within 48 hours my pussy was back to her old self. My heart was tender for quite a while. I was tempted to fallback into old patterns, and continue doing what I knew was neither what I wanted or good for me. 

I journaled my feelings out. I lost myself in books. I lamented about my experience to my girlfriends. I replayed the good times over and over in my head. And I gradually moved on. 

This experience served as a reminder that my body always knows everything before I do, and it will stop at nothing to get my attention. Discomfort and pain are signals, not symptoms. I always knew that my pussy was my best ally, particularly where romance is concerned, and she gets more fierce with age. My body is wise and all-knowing. It is energy incarnate and energy cannot lie, it communicates the unfiltered truth. 

Lesson learned. 

Related Posts
No more shrinking, because you’re not too much ( 17 Mar,2016 )
What does it mean to be independent? ( 5 Jul,2013 )
The ordinary, everyday woman ( 4 Mar,2015 )