It’s so sunny and I am falling in love with lilacs.
Old ladies side-eye me as I bury my face in sprays of lilac blooms. The trees are growing everywhere, full sun and well-drained soil. What could be better? The smell turns my head and draws me in.
Do I look crazy? Well, I am.
Dreaming of the people I wanted to fuck this week, but chose not to, because I prioritise living in peace now. Soft-eyed man with crutches. Daycare dad in a hi-vis vest, boots covered in mud, a child on each hip. The carpenter plodding by the train station Brocki, with a massive block of wood over one shoulder like it was nothing, overalls worn to shreds.
My massage guy. I’m married, not dead.
It’s become a ritual to schedule a massage with no less than a week after the egg drops. He says, How do you find yourself? Not how do you feel. Catches me off guard. Short and so solid, like a brick wall, with dark brown eyes and a man-bun. I don't usually like long hair but there’s something about him—he reminds me of the wrestler I relieved of his virginity.
He makes a lot of eye contact and smiles all the way up to his crinkly eyes, every time. I’m not sure if it’s customer service or friendliness or both.
Thick eyebrows, generous (but not plump) lips that are not chapped but not too moist, naturally big chest and balanced muscling up and down his arms indicating that he builds muscle just working for a living.
Broad hands, big palms, long thick fingers especially relative to his height, with surprisingly dry, rough skin - the way I really, really like men’s hands. I can feel the strength and sureness of his touch just looking at his hands. Unrelenting up and down my spine, compressing and expanding my ribs in and out, finding and releasing the sadness and anxiety stored in my hips. Low, steady. I feel a frisson of excitement thinking about what those hands might feel like around my throat, my wrists. How impossible to break his grip. I would have to triple tap before I pass out. How delightful.
His playlist is oddly identical to the one I curate for sex.
But it’s the way he takes charge, the way I never have to think from the moment we say hello to the moment I leave: Follow me. Take off your shirt. Lie face-down. Give me your arm. Let go. Breathe with me. I’m turning you over now. I am taking your leg. Drink this water.
He passes me tissues without a word when inevitably something deep gives way and I start to cry. He doesn’t flinch or comment or try to make me feel better, he just keeps going like it’s something that happens to him at work all the time, and maybe it is.
It’s ridiculously overplayed to crush on someone you pay to touch you. But he’s so good and I leave every time as a puddle of sweetness — quiet, loose, tearstained, smiling, and warm. And deeply satisfied and healed and open and oddly moved. And horny.
Then of course, I have sex. Not the frantic desire of the week before. Here my limbs feel like caramel in the summer sun, not so much active pursuit of what feels good. More of a slow drip-drip-drip of inevitable pleasure. I ask to be restrained, but gently. Restraint today is tto make me feel more and not less powerful. Gravity is a friend.
There are many different types of orgasms and the one most easily accessible for me in the next two weeks is the one that sits in my perineal body so please fuck me lying down from behind but then also face to face so that I know you still like me.
It builds steadily and peaks and crests and the comedown is s-l-o-w. I’m still pulsing with pleasure even though my brain has switched off and trying to drag me into sleep.
He’s not done yet, and I’m still incredibly wet and can take more, but I just can’t move myself any more. Grabs some pillows, props my limp body up on them, and I sleepily alternate between giggling and humming as he finds pleasure in fucking a living rag doll.
It feels good. I fall asleep easily.
I have sweet, weird dreams, wake up an hour later in the sunshine, stretch like a cat. Feel reborn.
Lunch is warm and on the table, we eat together and get on with our day.
God bless all the men looking after women today.
What you don't water don't grow
Watch what you're feeding your soul
You can just leave it
Let your hair down and feel it
You may approach the throne: https://throne.com/nagaramama