The lights were dim outside. She missed her twilights, her life. She was faced with an endlessly repeating cycle of work and home, children and too many people inside a capsule of a house. She used to imagine these lives when she was young and not married, shuddering at the thought of how a family of ten, that included three couples, could live in a constricted 2BHK off the grinding railway platform of Byculla. Little did she know she would land in precisely a family like that.
"Where do they have sex?" she wondered then. She never dared ask, though. On their first night together, they were hustled into one of the two bedrooms, decorated with wilting flowers. It was miserable - she hardly knew this man, but she was not going to complain about sex, of course. She had waited for this night. It was an anti-climax of sorts when he fell asleep within seconds of resting his head on the pillow.
Sex was always hurried, performed in strictly traditional positions, at the most random times of the day or night, with quickly stifled moans, of mostly pain. On days that they found themselves alone in the house, when her ribs would hurt from all the jostling they put up with, in the local trains, she was expected to be sufficiently lubricated and ready to take the ramming. And clean up after him too. Not one word of love, not one caress, not a second to wait and ask her if she had enjoyed it.
So it was not surprising when, on one particularly tiring work day, she bumped into her cubemate at work, in the office restroom. They both quickly apologized, smiled in unison, and she stepped aside to let her out. Instead, she got pulled in.
There was shock and disgust piling up inside every pore of her body at first, as the girl pinned her to the wall. "I cannot get you pregnant. Relax," the girl said. "You are fighting too hard. Let go. Elope with me, I am going to make you so happy," she whispered.
And to her utmost chagrin, those words sent up a thrill of the most beautiful tingling up her spine, her hips. The girl let her fingers run over her collar bone, raising goosebumps on her skin. The girl knelt down at her feet then, her eyes raised in a worshipping stance, slowly hiking up the saree, and it was then, looking into those eyes, that she realised how much she had wanted her husband to do this to her.
He was just going to have to pay for all those hurried nights and days of insensitivity, wouldn't he?
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Midnight
She was tired. A long day at work, a strenuous workout session in the gym, a full fledged cooking session later, and a visit to an old friend later, all she wanted to do was collapse into her bed. And not wake up for two days.
She left him working at his workstation in his study, kissed him goodnight on top of his head and dragged herself to their bedroom. A minute later, she was asleep.
Her dreams were fuzzy, violet satin slipping away to the floor, his eyes, a random song playing in the background, the shocking sensation of cold water on her skin, and the welcome rush of warm moonlight on her bare body. She turned in her sleep and her dream turned too, from royal colours to dark browns, the brown of her blanket as it was swept away and she felt smooth fingers cupping her breasts.
She smiled at the man who brought her lips to meet his, as her hands rode up his chest, grabbed his shoulders. A throbbing guilt consumed her at the same time as she struggled to realize whose hands these were that she was allowing on her body, when her man was a few feet away, working.
She partly also knew that she dreamt and her pleasure at this dream broke a dam of fresh guilt on her again. She struggled to open her eyes as his hands swept down to her hip, riding up her legs to find her womanhood. She awoke with a start, panting and felt his hands dragging her down again. She glanced at him, relief breaking over her as she realised he lay next to her, his hands on her breasts again, carressing, squeezing, sucking, licking, teasing, her breath catching in her throat in short gasps as waves of pleasure overtook her senses.
His hands travelled back to her womanhood as she pushed the guilt of not recognizing the familiar contours of his body. She clasped his shoulders as he climbed over her, his fingers between her lips, her tongue drawing lines on his smooth skin. He scooped his fingers out of her eager mouth and led them to her wetness, checking her readiness.
She was moist beyond measure and he tickled her, teased her, sliding his fingers in and out, drawing wetness with every stroke. He loved the wet sound of his fingers pulling out of her flower, climbing down then to taste her sex.
She tasted of musk and her perfumed bath salts. He lingered there, taking in her scent, smiling in anticipation for he knew what she would go through in a little while, the sounds she would make, the way she would egg him on to enter her, the way she would moan in pain, her hands clutching his hair, pushing his mouth, his tongue deeper and deeper until she would surrender and come, her breath shallow, her face aglow, his manhood hard and ready to pleasure them both again.
He drove his tongue in then, flicking her lips, tasting the new wetness that emerged, while her hips threatened to shiver out of control. He pinned her legs down with his hands and then...
He woke up, his manhood hard against him, his breath shallow and raspy, beads of perspiration on his forehead, his hands clutching the sheets crumpled up around him. He glanced to his side then, and saw her.
Asleep. A smile on her lips. That glow on her face. One hand limp on her breast. He caught his breath, gazing at her. He had had a long and tiring day. He curled up against her and kissed her forehead.
"Goodnight, baby."
She left him working at his workstation in his study, kissed him goodnight on top of his head and dragged herself to their bedroom. A minute later, she was asleep.
Her dreams were fuzzy, violet satin slipping away to the floor, his eyes, a random song playing in the background, the shocking sensation of cold water on her skin, and the welcome rush of warm moonlight on her bare body. She turned in her sleep and her dream turned too, from royal colours to dark browns, the brown of her blanket as it was swept away and she felt smooth fingers cupping her breasts.
She smiled at the man who brought her lips to meet his, as her hands rode up his chest, grabbed his shoulders. A throbbing guilt consumed her at the same time as she struggled to realize whose hands these were that she was allowing on her body, when her man was a few feet away, working.
She partly also knew that she dreamt and her pleasure at this dream broke a dam of fresh guilt on her again. She struggled to open her eyes as his hands swept down to her hip, riding up her legs to find her womanhood. She awoke with a start, panting and felt his hands dragging her down again. She glanced at him, relief breaking over her as she realised he lay next to her, his hands on her breasts again, carressing, squeezing, sucking, licking, teasing, her breath catching in her throat in short gasps as waves of pleasure overtook her senses.
His hands travelled back to her womanhood as she pushed the guilt of not recognizing the familiar contours of his body. She clasped his shoulders as he climbed over her, his fingers between her lips, her tongue drawing lines on his smooth skin. He scooped his fingers out of her eager mouth and led them to her wetness, checking her readiness.
She was moist beyond measure and he tickled her, teased her, sliding his fingers in and out, drawing wetness with every stroke. He loved the wet sound of his fingers pulling out of her flower, climbing down then to taste her sex.
She tasted of musk and her perfumed bath salts. He lingered there, taking in her scent, smiling in anticipation for he knew what she would go through in a little while, the sounds she would make, the way she would egg him on to enter her, the way she would moan in pain, her hands clutching his hair, pushing his mouth, his tongue deeper and deeper until she would surrender and come, her breath shallow, her face aglow, his manhood hard and ready to pleasure them both again.
He drove his tongue in then, flicking her lips, tasting the new wetness that emerged, while her hips threatened to shiver out of control. He pinned her legs down with his hands and then...
He woke up, his manhood hard against him, his breath shallow and raspy, beads of perspiration on his forehead, his hands clutching the sheets crumpled up around him. He glanced to his side then, and saw her.
Asleep. A smile on her lips. That glow on her face. One hand limp on her breast. He caught his breath, gazing at her. He had had a long and tiring day. He curled up against her and kissed her forehead.
"Goodnight, baby."
ASAP
She didn't like him one bit. He was too tall, quiet and ...hell, who cared, she wanted to marry a man that she loved, not one that her parents decided was good for her. She decided things in her life, her job, her clothes, her hair styles, her new motorcycle too.
It upset her no end when her mother called one evening to inform her that she had to get home a little earlier than usual - a prospective groom was coming home to see her.
That did it. She stormed out of her work place, went home, with full intentions on bringing the house down with her protests when she walked into a house full of people who stared at her with what she could only call curious interest. There was the mother, of course. Who sized her up quickly, introduced herself and her family. The father smiled genially and asked her to 'feel comfortable'. Of course she would feel comfortable, it was her house, was it not?
She sat herself down, threw a miserable look at her mother who had decided to not look in her direction.
She was then introduced to the man himself. So he was tall...and quiet. And he was so polite, she started feeling exactly what she didn't want to feel - uncomfortable.
The family asked them to go for a stroll and get to know each other while the folks stayed home and hoped they would like each other. She led him down, walked to her motorcycle and then paused. Weren't they supposed to walk?
"Sorry, I forgot. Let's go out, we can walk behind the apartment, the road is not very traffic heavy there."
He smiled. "Is that your bike?"
"Yes."
"You ride a bike."
She shifted on her feet. Dare he say that it's odd that a girl rides a bike. She would take him back home immediately and refuse to ever see him again. Bloody chauvinistic world.
"Will you take me for a ride instead? I will be your pillion."
She dropped her key and stared.
"Okay."
They rode off, into the traffic, an orange sunset witness to the sudden change she knew was happening. She rode, that feeling of speed seeping into her. He talked in the meanwhile, briefly telling her about what he did at work, the colors he liked, the food he liked to eat, the movies he saw, the music he listened to, the sports he played. He then started with his questions - what do you do, what do you do with your free time, what movies do you like, what do you want to do later, do you have dreams that you would die for...
And she spoke and laughed and giggled and listened and she knew.
She knew she wanted him to inch closer. Put his hand on her waist. Smell her hair. Kiss her neck. Tickle her and tease her. Now. On the bike. And later too. Tomorrow. The day after. Forever. Make love to her. Hold her. Kiss her. Laugh with her.
She inched back, turning the bike to a particularly rocky road. The bike lurched. He panicked.
"Do you want to go slow?" he asked.
"Yeah, sure. Hold on to me, will you?"
"Sure. Marry me. And I will keep doing just that." He put his hands around her waist, pulling her closer into himself, smelling her hair, nuzzling her neck. She stopped the bike, arched her head.
"As soon as possible?"
"As soon as possible."
It upset her no end when her mother called one evening to inform her that she had to get home a little earlier than usual - a prospective groom was coming home to see her.
That did it. She stormed out of her work place, went home, with full intentions on bringing the house down with her protests when she walked into a house full of people who stared at her with what she could only call curious interest. There was the mother, of course. Who sized her up quickly, introduced herself and her family. The father smiled genially and asked her to 'feel comfortable'. Of course she would feel comfortable, it was her house, was it not?
She sat herself down, threw a miserable look at her mother who had decided to not look in her direction.
She was then introduced to the man himself. So he was tall...and quiet. And he was so polite, she started feeling exactly what she didn't want to feel - uncomfortable.
The family asked them to go for a stroll and get to know each other while the folks stayed home and hoped they would like each other. She led him down, walked to her motorcycle and then paused. Weren't they supposed to walk?
"Sorry, I forgot. Let's go out, we can walk behind the apartment, the road is not very traffic heavy there."
He smiled. "Is that your bike?"
"Yes."
"You ride a bike."
She shifted on her feet. Dare he say that it's odd that a girl rides a bike. She would take him back home immediately and refuse to ever see him again. Bloody chauvinistic world.
"Will you take me for a ride instead? I will be your pillion."
She dropped her key and stared.
"Okay."
They rode off, into the traffic, an orange sunset witness to the sudden change she knew was happening. She rode, that feeling of speed seeping into her. He talked in the meanwhile, briefly telling her about what he did at work, the colors he liked, the food he liked to eat, the movies he saw, the music he listened to, the sports he played. He then started with his questions - what do you do, what do you do with your free time, what movies do you like, what do you want to do later, do you have dreams that you would die for...
And she spoke and laughed and giggled and listened and she knew.
She knew she wanted him to inch closer. Put his hand on her waist. Smell her hair. Kiss her neck. Tickle her and tease her. Now. On the bike. And later too. Tomorrow. The day after. Forever. Make love to her. Hold her. Kiss her. Laugh with her.
She inched back, turning the bike to a particularly rocky road. The bike lurched. He panicked.
"Do you want to go slow?" he asked.
"Yeah, sure. Hold on to me, will you?"
"Sure. Marry me. And I will keep doing just that." He put his hands around her waist, pulling her closer into himself, smelling her hair, nuzzling her neck. She stopped the bike, arched her head.
"As soon as possible?"
"As soon as possible."
It Rained
She peered out of the window. Late afternoon, the sun was beating down heavy and moist on the cracked, barren land. Crops had failed this time, families were upset and silent at dinner time and nobody smiled as much as they used to any longer. It was as if the delayed monsoon clouds had snatched away all traces of hope from the village.
She hadn't seen him either. Not in twenty days.
He has sent word that he was planning to move out of the village, head to the city, use his education to find a job. She has decided to not think about that. If she could just assume that he would be right here, fighting the dry spell by day, letting her make him happy by night, she would be fine. Just for another day.
He has said he would come tonight.
He had said he would come to spend that one last night in her embrace. One last night before he would go away. One last night drowning in her scent, one last night listening to her breath come in sharp gasps, like it did every time he touched her where he knew there would be rain.
There would be water enough for crops around the year, there would be parting enough to let her land ready for his seed.
One more night though...and there would be a flood, there would be life, there would be love, again.
When he came that night, there was despair in his lovemaking. There was hopelessness, there was that strong fight against succumbing to staying back in the silhouettes of her hair and skin, under the unwavering gaze of her almond eyes. There was a recklessness, uncaring if they were discovered, her pleasure escaping her lips in sounds louder than usual.
There was fierce passion, there was anger where his teeth left blood clots on her smooth skin. There were tears, tears of pain, of joy, of loss, of separation, of there being no tomorrow.
Not now. Not ever.
When he came in her, she wept, quietly, holding herself from making her clasp stronger than usual, stopping her chest from heaving from suffocation. Tears streamed down her cheek, dropping softly on the barren earth they lay on, begging for mercy, begging for another chance.
Begging. No relief.
Not now. Not ever.
A heavy price indeed, to pay for the soil that fed them, she thought, when he got up, kissed her forehead and walked away into the dead of the night. She wiped her tears, the sky welling up, miserable and defeated.
It rained that dawn.
She hadn't seen him either. Not in twenty days.
He has sent word that he was planning to move out of the village, head to the city, use his education to find a job. She has decided to not think about that. If she could just assume that he would be right here, fighting the dry spell by day, letting her make him happy by night, she would be fine. Just for another day.
He has said he would come tonight.
He had said he would come to spend that one last night in her embrace. One last night before he would go away. One last night drowning in her scent, one last night listening to her breath come in sharp gasps, like it did every time he touched her where he knew there would be rain.
There would be water enough for crops around the year, there would be parting enough to let her land ready for his seed.
One more night though...and there would be a flood, there would be life, there would be love, again.
When he came that night, there was despair in his lovemaking. There was hopelessness, there was that strong fight against succumbing to staying back in the silhouettes of her hair and skin, under the unwavering gaze of her almond eyes. There was a recklessness, uncaring if they were discovered, her pleasure escaping her lips in sounds louder than usual.
There was fierce passion, there was anger where his teeth left blood clots on her smooth skin. There were tears, tears of pain, of joy, of loss, of separation, of there being no tomorrow.
Not now. Not ever.
When he came in her, she wept, quietly, holding herself from making her clasp stronger than usual, stopping her chest from heaving from suffocation. Tears streamed down her cheek, dropping softly on the barren earth they lay on, begging for mercy, begging for another chance.
Begging. No relief.
Not now. Not ever.
A heavy price indeed, to pay for the soil that fed them, she thought, when he got up, kissed her forehead and walked away into the dead of the night. She wiped her tears, the sky welling up, miserable and defeated.
It rained that dawn.
Sleepless Nights
I can't stop looking at you while you stand a few feet from me, in front of the mirror, your back to me, your strikingly distracting face in the mirror while you look yourself over, smoothing out creases from your shirts, so you can be on your way to work. I sit curled up here, on the bed, wishing I could think up something to freeze you there, freeze the day.
You turn and you ask.
"What do you like about this bed?"
I am stumped. You cannot be thinking what I am thinking. That would be too much of a coincidence.
You continue. "When you come back home after a tiring day, and you sit down on it, what is it that you feel?"
Aah. That makes sense.
"Relief. Happiness. I also feel sleepy."
"Except in the nights."
I pretend nonchalance. "Yeah", I say casually, picking up my book to read again.
I am not sleepy in the night, I tell you in my head. You are there every night, inches from me, and I cannot sleep because it is such humongous waste. I will not allow that. Inches from me, your skin glows golden, your eyes are dreamy and all over me and I have this maddening urge to reach out and touch your cheek. Trace my fingertips all the way down to your throat so I can see the shiver running up your spine. I like it that I can do that to you.
I cannot sleep in the night because your hands trace invisible lines on me, paving paths to mind numbing delights that echo in my body all through the next day, that make me stop whatever I am doing so I can allow the throbbing to slow down to a pace that I can stand. I cannot sleep because your mouth draws gasps of painful sweetness from mine. I cannot sleep because I am so empty that I need you to fill me up before I can even imagine a night of peaceful sleep.
I cannot sleep because you body lies entwined with mine, molded to my form, your breathing controlled and in rhyme with mine, while I try hard to not wake the entire neighbourhood.
Of course I love my bed.
You sleep on it.
And I lie awake telling the skies that I would trade a million souls for every sleepless night.
You turn and you ask.
"What do you like about this bed?"
I am stumped. You cannot be thinking what I am thinking. That would be too much of a coincidence.
You continue. "When you come back home after a tiring day, and you sit down on it, what is it that you feel?"
Aah. That makes sense.
"Relief. Happiness. I also feel sleepy."
"Except in the nights."
I pretend nonchalance. "Yeah", I say casually, picking up my book to read again.
I am not sleepy in the night, I tell you in my head. You are there every night, inches from me, and I cannot sleep because it is such humongous waste. I will not allow that. Inches from me, your skin glows golden, your eyes are dreamy and all over me and I have this maddening urge to reach out and touch your cheek. Trace my fingertips all the way down to your throat so I can see the shiver running up your spine. I like it that I can do that to you.
I cannot sleep in the night because your hands trace invisible lines on me, paving paths to mind numbing delights that echo in my body all through the next day, that make me stop whatever I am doing so I can allow the throbbing to slow down to a pace that I can stand. I cannot sleep because your mouth draws gasps of painful sweetness from mine. I cannot sleep because I am so empty that I need you to fill me up before I can even imagine a night of peaceful sleep.
I cannot sleep because you body lies entwined with mine, molded to my form, your breathing controlled and in rhyme with mine, while I try hard to not wake the entire neighbourhood.
Of course I love my bed.
You sleep on it.
And I lie awake telling the skies that I would trade a million souls for every sleepless night.
Liquid Days
It's one of those days that you keep running to the washroom.
Just to touch your wetness, that's still slick from last night's love-making. That won't stop making you squirm in your seat and get alone with yourself so you can think some more of the night that was.
And touch yourself again.
It makes you want to come all over again today, warm and liquid one more time, from thinking of his tongue on your clit, the delightful lapping and licking that drove spasms of ecstasy up your spine and abdomen. From thinking of how, involuntarily, you drove him to dive his head into your cunt, eat you up entirely until you are so wet, it feels like you have never been dry before.
You talk, smile, chat, eat and work while he still pulls on your mind and body, your flesh kneaded, squeezed and pulped under his able fingers, your moans turning into gasps, from human sounds to animal-like growls.
He pumps into you, you ride on his cock and with each contraction, he drives deeper and deeper into you until your world zeroes down on him and he is all you are aware of and the sensation of having him fill you up, leaving no vacuum unclaimed.
You collapse on him, your head digging into the hollow between his ear and neck and you manage to breathe. Just to remember you are still alive. He finds that ticklish and laughs. Your liquids churn into his and you moan again. The feeling of having him spent inside of you is so intoxicating, you wish you could hold him in, inside of you all day long.
And you do. You do hold him in. For until you can find that oasis again, that reservoir will help you survive.
Just to touch your wetness, that's still slick from last night's love-making. That won't stop making you squirm in your seat and get alone with yourself so you can think some more of the night that was.
And touch yourself again.
It makes you want to come all over again today, warm and liquid one more time, from thinking of his tongue on your clit, the delightful lapping and licking that drove spasms of ecstasy up your spine and abdomen. From thinking of how, involuntarily, you drove him to dive his head into your cunt, eat you up entirely until you are so wet, it feels like you have never been dry before.
You talk, smile, chat, eat and work while he still pulls on your mind and body, your flesh kneaded, squeezed and pulped under his able fingers, your moans turning into gasps, from human sounds to animal-like growls.
He pumps into you, you ride on his cock and with each contraction, he drives deeper and deeper into you until your world zeroes down on him and he is all you are aware of and the sensation of having him fill you up, leaving no vacuum unclaimed.
You collapse on him, your head digging into the hollow between his ear and neck and you manage to breathe. Just to remember you are still alive. He finds that ticklish and laughs. Your liquids churn into his and you moan again. The feeling of having him spent inside of you is so intoxicating, you wish you could hold him in, inside of you all day long.
And you do. You do hold him in. For until you can find that oasis again, that reservoir will help you survive.
Extra Marital Affairs
All my guy friends say marriages are eventually, boring. They all finally boil down to living in this society, surrounded by relatives who expect you will have children as soon as its possible, socialise and attend several more weddings. And yes, I have reasons to believe my friends, who over pitchers of beer and mounting drunkenness, relate tales of how their wives nag and bitch, fight and argue, and are least interested in sex. Like the world believes its unnatural for women to be super-sexual beings.
But not for my mistress. The goddess I have spent so many delicious nights with. As I explore her, I see how hungry she is for me, with that thirst mounting every other night, for months now. I wonder what makes us that way...that it is clandestine, nobody knows? That I can't wait to touch her, kiss her, caress her, let my fingers find their way to her sex, feel the pulsating rhythm of her clitoris against my fingers as my cock hardens, begging to enter her, begging to be licked, stroked, worshipped, to pay homage to this woman that is the focus of my universe, even though I am married?
So I stay mute and smile and nod as my friends explain, how a man's life is finished once he is married. Perhaps a few months of fantasy, a few months of ecstacy but the same old routine, boring and mundane facts of life soon after. Soon after, we are used to the sex, we are used to the fights, we are used to throttling our dreams and soon after, we are aging before we know that it is abnormal to die.
I laugh about it sometimes and she asks why I am laughing. I tell her how we should keep exploring new places because there is so much to see and know and we have so much time. "But you are married and you have responsibilities!" she retorts, pretending shock and we both burst out laughing again, as I pull her over and fuck her while she is on top. She rides me with rhythm, her back arching, her breasts jiggling over my face, inches from my lips, and I sometimes lift my head while I fuck her to nibble and bite her. She jerks with pleasure and I let my hands ride down her waist, her skin slick with sweat and heat.
My friends are drunk, trying to forget things they would rather not face, facts like living their dreams, like travelling for pleasure, like having kids when you feel the universe urging you to receive angels into your life, and not because your people think you must. Facts like women love sex, perhaps more than men, not sex for the sake of sex, but sex for the sake of finding a match. An equal match; powerful, independent, beautiful and immortal. Alcohol is a great soother and it is easy finding escape in its recesses. I smile at their jokes and pour my drink into a nearby wash basin.
It's time for me to go back to my goddess, to the woman who is counting every second on her wall clock because she knows I will see her tonight. To the woman whose universe revolves around mine. To the woman who will laugh and tell me that I am married and I have responsibilities and then laugh about how we should still travel this world and eat more cake. To the goddess I worship and look up to, the the whore I fuck and who fucks me back, to the little girl who snuggles up in my arms after I have made love to her, to the woman that mothers and feeds me when I am ill, to my mistress.
To my wife, who is my wife by heart and not by ritual.
But not for my mistress. The goddess I have spent so many delicious nights with. As I explore her, I see how hungry she is for me, with that thirst mounting every other night, for months now. I wonder what makes us that way...that it is clandestine, nobody knows? That I can't wait to touch her, kiss her, caress her, let my fingers find their way to her sex, feel the pulsating rhythm of her clitoris against my fingers as my cock hardens, begging to enter her, begging to be licked, stroked, worshipped, to pay homage to this woman that is the focus of my universe, even though I am married?
So I stay mute and smile and nod as my friends explain, how a man's life is finished once he is married. Perhaps a few months of fantasy, a few months of ecstacy but the same old routine, boring and mundane facts of life soon after. Soon after, we are used to the sex, we are used to the fights, we are used to throttling our dreams and soon after, we are aging before we know that it is abnormal to die.
I laugh about it sometimes and she asks why I am laughing. I tell her how we should keep exploring new places because there is so much to see and know and we have so much time. "But you are married and you have responsibilities!" she retorts, pretending shock and we both burst out laughing again, as I pull her over and fuck her while she is on top. She rides me with rhythm, her back arching, her breasts jiggling over my face, inches from my lips, and I sometimes lift my head while I fuck her to nibble and bite her. She jerks with pleasure and I let my hands ride down her waist, her skin slick with sweat and heat.
My friends are drunk, trying to forget things they would rather not face, facts like living their dreams, like travelling for pleasure, like having kids when you feel the universe urging you to receive angels into your life, and not because your people think you must. Facts like women love sex, perhaps more than men, not sex for the sake of sex, but sex for the sake of finding a match. An equal match; powerful, independent, beautiful and immortal. Alcohol is a great soother and it is easy finding escape in its recesses. I smile at their jokes and pour my drink into a nearby wash basin.
It's time for me to go back to my goddess, to the woman who is counting every second on her wall clock because she knows I will see her tonight. To the woman whose universe revolves around mine. To the woman who will laugh and tell me that I am married and I have responsibilities and then laugh about how we should still travel this world and eat more cake. To the goddess I worship and look up to, the the whore I fuck and who fucks me back, to the little girl who snuggles up in my arms after I have made love to her, to the woman that mothers and feeds me when I am ill, to my mistress.
To my wife, who is my wife by heart and not by ritual.
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