writing is like sex

"Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money."     - Virginia Woolf

He was a good listener. I felt open and honest with him. One night on the garden balcony we talked and watched stars until 2 a.m. He listened to my story. Sometimes I cried remembering everything.

We became friends and lovers for a week.

We can’t stay here, he said. He rented a room nearby. A place where we could sleep together and I’d be safe until I found a place to stay.

The first night together I felt shy. I undressed in the bathroom and took a shower. I put on my underwear and blouse, wrapped a towel around me and came out. My short black hair was wet.

The low lights were yellow. Soft music came from his phone on the desk. He wore blue shorts. You are beautiful, he said.

I curled next to him and we held each other. I have a scar from my son and my left breast is smaller than the right one, I said.

It’s ok, he said. I liked feeling his arms. He stroked my hair. I closed my eyes.

We both wanted the same thing. I wanted him to take his time. He massaged my neck, tracing fingers along the edge of my shoulders. He kissed my neck, throat. His tongue was wet. I rolled onto my stomach. His fingers spread down my spine, kneading tissue. It felt good, warm muscles, touch.

Sensations.

He shifted his weight over me massaging my back through my shirt. Strong and steady. He pushed my shirt up to touch my skin with his skin. I exhaled. His softness increased pressure across tight neck muscles, shoulder blades, down my lower back. He kissed my spine, sending shivers through me. His hands and tongue were magic. He took his time with me.

I rolled over keeping the towel tight around me.

He rested his head on my chest. I can hear your heartbeat, he said. It is a strong drum. Thump, thump. It was a solid percussion instrument this heart beat. My good heart. Open. Receptive. It was a shy love.

I held him like an infant, pressed close. I felt safe with him. I am a little girl, I whispered, tracing his back with my fingers. I love your hands, they are small and soft, he whispered. They were dancing elusive magic fingers. It was all touch, gentle, soft, exploring, shy. Pure sensations.

He opened my blouse and kissed my left nipple. His tongue felt hot and soft. He massaged my breast with his fingers. He caressed my right nipple with his tongue. My nipples were sensual points in his mouth. His fingers examined curves, edges.

He opened the towel and moved to my scar. I didn’t stop him. His fingers explored my belly, drifting lower until he found my hair, then my pubis. His fingers gently massaged my labia minora and found my clitoris. The little button.

No, I gasped. No. My hips and thighs were on fire. I was afraid. Only of the past, only of the way Michael abused me. How his passion was anger when he took me fast, slamming into me. This felt gentle.

I knew from long experience that once I started sex I couldn’t stop. It felt way too good. Even if it hurt a part of me.

It’s ok, he whispered. I love touching you here.

I was wet. His fingers gently rubbed my clitoris. Sensations of pure pleasure filled me with joy. I arched my hips. I took his hand and put it where I’d receive the most stimulation. I showed him how to massage me. I knew he was experienced in the act of love just out of practice.