Slower, even slower...

There's something to be said for leisure. In the art of lovemaking even more so.

It took me a long time to even use the word "lovemaking". It sounded too much like what "nice" people do in their bedrooms on a Tuesday night at 10:15pm for precisely 17 minutes, if they're lucky.

I fucked, I didn't make love. And if that sounds too Christian Grey for you, please understand that my saying that pre-dated my knowledge of that questionable trilogy.

I fucked, I certainly didn't want my emotions, let alone love, tangled all up in a perfectly good shared orgasm session.

And I had some great sex, I really did.

Now I'm developing an appreciation of slow, sensual sex. Lovemaking, even, now that I've begun to view love more as a healing, vibrant, living emotion to share with whomever you choose - for however long you choose - instead of an exclusively "to death do us part" commitment.

I remember one particularly wet afternoon, my lover arrived in a button down, his tie loosened. I threw my arms around his neck and pressed my curves up against him. He returned my kiss but seemed hesitant.

For my part, I pressed on, working the tie loose from his collar and busying my fingers down his starched shirt.

He turned me so my back was to him and brushed the curtain of my hair aside. Lips touched the back of my neck so gently it could have been enough to make me cry. Gooseflesh spread all over my body and he caught note of it on my bare arms.

"Goosebumps, huh?" he breathed into my ear.


Everything moved in slow motion that afternoon. I couldn't begin to describe it from rote as a step by step paragraph. It was a damp cloud. I recall flashing sensory memories - a trail of sweat down the crease of my thigh, a patient tongue. Losing inhibition with him beneath, my hair a tangled black mess. Him cocking a crooked grin and pulling me down to give me a kiss. I was courting madness, he was measured and exact until near the end.

His slow made room for my fast, he held a place for me to fall apart. And I did - over and over and over again.

It left me shaken, but with a smile that I couldn't mask. It left me with an understanding of the beauty of slowness. Of holding space for pleasure and giving it time to bloom. Even now, I've got a sly grin as I recall that rainy late lunch hour.

I'm writing this now from my local coffee haunt. I've ordered a second espresso and am lost in thoughts of that tryst. My server brings my cup.

"You're smiling like the cat who ate the canary."

It's a cliche I'm quite familiar with, and one that hits home. I often find myself the keeper of others' sexy secrets and love nothing more than - how shall I say this? - indulging mutual appetites.

But I'm afraid she's off base today, although I won't tell her.

I'm not the cat that ate the canary. Nor was he. I felt nothing less than savored that day. Tasted. Sipped. Relished in. Like I was the most luxurious treat. And although he was a man with a hearty craving, all treats must be reveled in.

A girl could get used to that.

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