Please F*ck Me to My Peaceful Place.
Via Keeley Milneon Jan 7, 2015
We met seven years ago, and the pure physical joy between us has never paused for breath.
I cannot wrap my mind around why my body so loves his, but oh, how it does.
Every inch—from the curve of his smile, to the way his hair sticks up after sleep, to the strength of his shoulders, his legs, him wrapped around me.
There is no curbing this chemistry.
When we broke up for a time, we couldn’t even meet one another for coffee because we knew what passion it would lead to (and he respected me too much to engage in random sex). There is love, yes—the kind that comes with true recognition of one another, complete with peccadilloes, inadequacies. He challenges my mind—and that in itself is erotic—but this is really about two bodies colliding.
Somewhere that love has meshed with the lust and created a mind-blowing bliss I could never have imagined.
I like to think I am very strong, independent and need no completion. Were I to remain single for the rest of my life, I believe I would remain at peace, loving, happy and engaged with the world around me. I need no other, no better half, no partner.
I am a full, rich being in my own right.
But my pure animal lust for him cannot be denied. I’ve dated other men before him, even been married. Nothing has ever tipped my world upside down like this. He is the ocean to my beach, the lullabye to my nightmare, the cream to my sugar. He is every cheesy line in every ridiculous greeting card ever written.
He is the antidote to my poison.
When I am with him, my mind goes quiet. For someone who has searched the world over for a mind at peace, this is heaven encapsulated. Perhaps that is why I can then so eagerly turn to tactile pleasures, a kiss, a stroke, a sigh.
My body feels strong with him. He predicts my movements, knows my rhythms, answers with his own. His heat seeks mine, he loves me wholly and deeply. To paraphrase John Mayer, he “never lets my head hit the bed without his hand behind it.”
The sex is full of connection at times, other times just pure unadulterated passion. Always, there is trust.
I fought against this pleasure for years. Believing myself, us, undeserving. I wasted time tangled up in disaster-webs of my own weaving. Now, my heart has opened to embrace this as a part of my new life. In another lifetime, I hated every inch of my skin, every ounce of fat, every freckle and strand of hair.
Now, my body is a miracle in action. Running, hiking, f*cking—I am proud of every movement it makes.
He rolls over in the night and reaches for me, tucks an arm around me, pulls me close. I am blessed abundantly, and I do not push this love away. My body and heart have earned these rights—to be held closely and safely, to be made love to riotously and thoroughly.
To be loved through and through, and then over again.
To be at peace, mind and body.