Friday, August 24, 2012

The Best Part of Breaking Up...

THE BEST PART OF BREAKING UP.... being honest about why it happened.  To yourself and to your partner.  What follows is part fiction, part memoir, and part a piece of advice which hopes, once you’ve finished reading, it might help you figure out how not to wind up in this position.

The story is called “Love, Judy,” but it could as easily be “Love, John.”

Dear Steve,

You asked me to tell you why I moved out of our apartment.  I'll probably regret it in the morning, but maybe I do owe you an explanation and, if you think any less of me once you've read it, then I guess that'll make things easier for you in the long run.  Or maybe not.  I’m not sure I even care any longer.

Do you remember when we first met?  How we sparked immediately; the afternoons that we spent just running around the city; the evenings we went out "on the town"; and then the first night we spent together?  We’d barely been indoors ten minutes and we were naked on my apartment floor.  Our hands were everywhere and our kisses were endless.  Your fingers were inside me as I touched your raw hardness for the first time.  Oh, it felt so good in my fist, so thick and strong, an iron bar popped straight out of the furnace, and the harder I jerked you, the harder it grew.  I knelt and took the hot head in my mouth, sucked until you cried out loud, and you came so hard that I had to step back – a jet like that could have blown my brains out.  And then you went down and sucked me back; you never did locate my clitoris, but you licked as though your life depended on it and, once you were hard again, we fucked with a fury I had never experienced.

I still think about the way you entered me that night, teasing me with the tip of your cock, pushing inside a tiny fraction at a time, paying as much attention to your withdrawal as your penetration.  I was almost crying with desire when you finally slipped your full length in; and, when you came, I tightened every muscle I have, to hold you clenched inside me for as long as I could.

We made love twice more that night.  You seemed to stiffen at will, I didn’t even need to touch you for you to be thrusting inside me, hotter and harder every time.  And, when you left for work the following morning, I spent half the day in bed, simply breathing in the scent of our love-making.  I couldn’t believe it when you called around that evening, with that huge bouquet of flowers, to ask if I’d move in with you.  I gave my landlord four weeks’ notice that weekend.

Our first month together, we were rarely out of bed.  We made love in every position we could think of, and a few we couldn’t believe we’d discovered.  I don’t think there’s an inch of my skin that never felt the hot splash of your seed and not much of yours’ that wasn’t bathed in my juices.  And it’s funny, looking back, because in every other aspect of our life together, you were so … not predictable, because that sounds like a put-down.  But reliable, steadfast, a creature of habit.  As a lover, in that first tempestuous month, however, you were spontaneous, wild and absolutely astonishing.  I was thrilled by the contrast.  I never dreamed that it might change.

I moved in on a Saturday, but we didn’t make love that night.  You were tired, I was exhausted.  We didn’t do it the following night, either.  Or the next. Suddenly, what had once seemed a nightly ritual was receding into the back of our life.  But it didn’t matter at the time.  We had our whole lives in front of us, didn’t we?  And I was happy in your arms whatever happened; happy, too, to know that, at any moment, you might roll me over without a word, your fingers coaxing me to wetness before you slid… sometimes you slid, sometimes you plunged, once – and I almost exploded with pleasure when you did – you just rammed yourself in, and came within seconds.  As the days continued slipping past, the waiting was almost as exciting as the act.

But a week became two, then folded into three. Close to a month had gone by in the blink of an eye.  One night I reached for you, and you told me you were too tired.  Another night you had a headache.  Another, you didn’t say anything, and just feigned sleep instead.  But, finally you came to me, entering me gently, riding me slowly, teasing out our orgasms as though we might never have another, and you wanted to make the most of them.  I didn’t think that at the time, of course; I just marveled at your beauty, strength and the tenderness with which you loved me.  Then you came home the next evening and asked me if I would please change the sheets, as though they were a horror that had been haunting you all day at work. 

I think I knew then that something wasn't right between us, but I thought with time... patience... love (and I did/do love you)... we'd be able to work it out.  That's why I didn’t say anything for so long.  Time, patience and love.  The problem is, time and patience finally ran out.  And do you know how many times we made love, Steve?  We lived together for almost three years.  We had sex nine times.  And, you know what?  Suddenly the waiting wasn’t half as exciting as it used to be.  

I was frustrated.  More than that, I was heartbroken.  I always believed that a relationship was built around two people acknowledging one another’s needs, going the extra mile for the person they say they love.  I know I did it for you.  Was there ever a day you went to work in anything but a clean shirt and trousers?  Was there ever an evening when dinner wasn’t waiting for you?  Was there ever a time I said I’d rather stay at home, than visit your parents or brother once again?  There was nothing I wouldn’t do for you, and all I wanted… yearned for… came this close to begging for… in return was a little excitement, and the chance to demonstrate with my body, all the love that I felt in my heart.

We quarreled. One night I asked you outright why you so rarely wanted to touch me any longer, and even before I’d asked the question, I could hear you framing your answer. You were tired… you were busy… not feeling too good… not in the mood.  

Do you know how much I hate that expression?  You’re not in the mood for what?  For letting your lover know that you love her with something more tangible than words and a couple of Xs on a birthday card?  For switching off the TV and spending some time with the one thing in your life that is physically aching for your attention?  For not worrying about work and money, and giving yourself over to pleasure, for once?  Rejection is a melodramatic word, but that’s what it felt like, night after night, when you fell asleep without touching me, brushing my hands off your body as you did so.

I had dreams of the way we used to be, of the way I once thought we’d always be. I dreamed of your tongue in my pussy, chasing around my clitoris, licking and flicking me till I begged you to fuck me.  

I dreamed of you pressing me harshly to the bed, crushing my breasts beneath my body as you slicked my ass with saliva and cunt juice, and then took me from behind, your massive cock tearing at my tiniest hole, pounding into my stomach with every rough thrust.  

I dreamed that you straddled my chest while I lay on the couch, and how my jaw would ache as I stretched my mouth wide to accept your firm cock in my mouth.  I remembered how my taste buds would jangle, overwhelmed by the myriad flavors of your hard flesh, the sharp tang around the tip, the musky velvet of the head, the warm salt of the shaft; the changing textures and sensations as you forced yourself deeper; the hot shock flood when you came in my throat, and I almost choked on your sweetly tart nectar.  

And then I would wake up to find my mouth still dry, my pussy an aching hollow, my heart a darkening pit of emptiness, and another day would yawn ahead of me before we climbed back into the bed we “shared,” and the whole dispiriting saga could play out again.

One morning while you were sleeping, I decided to see what would happen if…. I drew back the bedclothes as you lay on your back, reached my hand inside your pajama pants.  You were soft, but still amazingly long.  I raised you gently, taking your warm weight into my mouth, amazed at how quickly you started to swell, till it felt as though my head must burst.  Nothing tricky, nothing fast.  I held you tight, my lips so close to the base of your cock that my nose was pushing against your balls.  I was contracting and expanding the muscles of my mouth, different pressures on different points, then slowly I began to bob my head, long smooth sweeps that couldn’t help but thrill you, that sent harmonic tremors pulsing through the thick, dark veins.

I imagined that you’d wake up as you came, and finally realize all that you’ve been missing.  I convinced myself of that fact.  And then you did awaken and you pulled yourself free; clucked a brusque “don’t do that” that stung like a slap, then slammed the door for a noisy piss.  I could still taste you on my lips at lunchtime, but it wasn’t the victorious tang I’d expected, just the bitter bile of rejection once more.

I asked you that night – am I doing something wrong?  Is there something you’d prefer?  Don’t you want me any longer?  You lay down your paper and sighed in annoyance. “Nothing’s wrong.  Now leave it.” I told you I was miserable, that I couldn’t live a life without touch and pleasure.  You told me I had sex on the brain.  And then you asked me to shut up. “I don’t want to talk about it.  I’m not in the mood.”   Well fuck you, I do want to talk about it, and I am in the mood.  

It wasn’t just the sex I wanted, it wasn’t merely the relentless pursuit of an orgasm.  It was the sense of total togetherness that is also so much a part of making love, the tenderness, and the pure joy of absolute, uninhibited intimacy.  There was nothing I would not do for you, if you’d asked me to.  And so much I wanted to ask you to do for me.  

I have never come to the tune of a lover’s tongue.  I would show you how to eat my pussy, until the orgasms sent me bouncing off the walls, and then turn around and do it back to you, a vibrator up your ass while you’re coming down my throat.  We explored one another with lust in the past. Now let’s do it with love as well.  Except….

You said you loved me, and my brain believed you.  But my body rebelled, and screamed out defiantly… how can you love me if you never want to touch me?  How can you love me, if my touch makes you roll away, if the very thought of my body seems to flood your brain with a thousand other things that you’d rather be doing?  I want to suck you off.  You want to grout the bathtub. I want to sit on your face. You’d rather sit on the john.  I want to fuck you.  You’d rather I fucked myself.  

I fought back.  “Let’s spend Thanksgiving with my parents,” you suggested.  No, I’m not in the mood.  “I’d like to have some people from work over this weekend.”  No, I’m not in the mood.  “Let’s watch a movie.”  No, I’m not in the mood.  You didn’t like that, did you?  You sulked like a six year old, stamping around the house until I finally gave in and we did what you wanted.  Always what you wanted.  Why is it that you are so protective over the stupid things that don’t mean anything to either of us.  But the one thing that should be the most precious of all, our life together… that doesn’t matter, does it?  And why?  Because you’re not in the mood. 

Do you remember when you had me that morning last summer?  The reason I was still in bed was because I had a splitting headache and my period was coming.  I felt shitty.  But you came to me and kissed me; and, when your hands spread my legs, I let you in because I loved you.  That’s right, Steve, I wasn’t in the mood.  But you know what?  That didn’t matter because I wanted you to feel good, I wanted you to feel loved… and I didn’t want you to suffer the agony of rejection that you put me through every night.  I don’t know why.  You probably wouldn’t even have noticed.

I did notice. Every time you rolled away, every time you told me no, every time you changed the subject,  I noticed and it never stopped hurting, until I couldn’t take the pain any longer.  And that’s when I left.  That’s why I left.

My last thought.  This letter’s gone on far too long as it is, and you probably stopped reading a few pages back.  Maybe I’ll save a stamp and just post it on your website.  Maybe I’ll read it in the morning, and throw it away.  But first, let me to tell you what I did this evening.

I went out to a club with some girls from work, sat at the bar in that short skirt you bought me, let a smooth-talking surfer dude buy me cocktails all evening.  And when I went to the ladies, he followed me in, said the condom machine was broken in the men’s room, then he fucked me against the washbasins.  He was hot and hard and he moved like a piston engine.  I came before he even got going.  So you know what I did?  I stepped away from him, then fell to my knees.  I grabbed his ass and jammed his cunt-soaked cock into my mouth, as far as it would go, as far as I could take him.  And then I fucked him back with my face; fucked him and sucked him, bit his balls and licked his knob, wiped his pre-cum all over my cheeks, worked him until he couldn’t take anymore – and when he came, I swallowed the lot, drank it down in one scalding mouthful.  Then, when I’d sucked him completely dry, and the poor kid could hardly stand up any longer, I wiped my face, kissed his cheek, left the club and drove home.

That could have been you and me, Steve.  That could have been your cum that I can still taste in my mouth; your cock that I still feel bruising my pussy; and you who I’ll be looking for tomorrow night, when I go out again to a different club entirely.  But no.  You’ll be sitting around feeling sorry for yourself, and probably cursing the waste of the last three years.  Me, I reckon I wasted them as well.  But at least I intend making up for lost time.

Sorry if any of this upsets you, Steve.  But you did ask….

Love, Judy

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