Costs

Being insatiable has its prices. She complains-doesn’t-complain about the pain. She sent what sounds like any dude’s text message from a dream. And it is. She wanted me to know she has trouble walking now after our encounters, which she describes as training for a marathon. She says it is good pain. We joke that there must be a song in the thrash metal realm that is in the spirit of “Sore where you want to be sore.” She confirms that it’s all good. Marathon. 26 miles of fucking? How would that be tallied? In inches. Inch by precious inch. We hold each other so tight. No words, only primal notes of approval, with joking grunts of disapproval, as the hours click past like minutes. It has been years since I was allowed to be like this, and it shows. I feel insatiable but wake up feeling like I might never wake again, tiredness and exhaustion hijacking everything from brain to braun. She is the same. We are not in our twenties anymore, but I told her, and I believe this, I told her “It gets better.” The sex, I meant. She nodded. She knows. The N train was next for her. Emotionally we are not perfect for each other. Her biases, my laziness, these can coexist but will never swim together. She can stare at my cock for hours. It calms me, while urging me at the same time. I am sore, too, in places I forgot could even get sore. I feel and use the muscles that have developed, too. On a subway when the train jolted and swerved I felt my ass muscles tighten and the shoulders, too. The shoulders get a lot of work for holding her so tight, and I feel where they are stronger now than they were months ago. The fucking muscles are a repeat mystery to me. Mostly they are in the stomach area but I’m never sure if it’s the sex that made them sore or the laughter we shared. She can laugh so hard it’s scary. Everything about her is wetness. She called herself Bog Lady, which is funny if only a little ick. I have to get back to reality now. Back to making her feel lonely.