Laws of love
I hide my teeth behind my lips as a habit, now. In twenty days, it will be three years since my 'first kiss'. Since my uncontrollable blushing and my nervous chatter, since I let this man into my life. And with my permission, he laid down the law.
There was to be no biting.
No marking. We were people, not possessions.
No name-calling. We should have enough mutual respect to keep away from that.
If either of us were uncomfortable, it stops. I never used to be able to say the words, but he coaxed and coaxed. It was like he could feel me start to drift and would freeze, his hand warm and real and unmoving, whispering to me, "Say no, honey. Just say no. I'm not going to hurt you, I know you are starting to feel uncomfortable, just say no. Say no and I'll move my hand to your shoulder, okay? It's okay. Two little letters, love. It's okay. Wanna say them one at a time? N..." And I would break apart into bits learning to deny a man of my body for the first time in my life.
No sex, not until we're ready. Eight months into the relationship, we try it. I expect to feel like a whore, wanting it, but instead we roll around in our hotel suite he rented for the occassion, laughing at the luxury and leaving the do-not-disturb sigh up for three days straight.
No hurting eachother physically- none. The first three consecutive years of my life that I haven't taken a blow from my lovers or family.
So I hid my teeth to see where silly rules like this would lead.
And it led me here.
I still stare in disbelief.
We sleep side-by-side, naked and recklessly abandoned. I don't just curl up into his arms, I sprawl, legs and arms everywhere, blankets kicked down in the warm bedroom. I bare my pale, scrawny underbelly and the soft parts of my throat. He breathes evenly on the back of my neck and lets me wrap my fingers around his wrist so I can calculate his heart rate until I fall asleep. I wake screaming and crying in my sleep, and he shakes me awake and winds his arms around me like a shield until I fall asleep. I crawl over his body and lap at his skin until he shivers. He presses against me, and I am not disgusted, but in awe of his passion. His hands clench in the sheets, he breathes my name, and I watch, wide-eyed and giddy at my effect.
He is beautiful.
And with him, I am beautiful.
Does he really think there is another man like him out there?
There was to be no biting.
No marking. We were people, not possessions.
No name-calling. We should have enough mutual respect to keep away from that.
If either of us were uncomfortable, it stops. I never used to be able to say the words, but he coaxed and coaxed. It was like he could feel me start to drift and would freeze, his hand warm and real and unmoving, whispering to me, "Say no, honey. Just say no. I'm not going to hurt you, I know you are starting to feel uncomfortable, just say no. Say no and I'll move my hand to your shoulder, okay? It's okay. Two little letters, love. It's okay. Wanna say them one at a time? N..." And I would break apart into bits learning to deny a man of my body for the first time in my life.
No sex, not until we're ready. Eight months into the relationship, we try it. I expect to feel like a whore, wanting it, but instead we roll around in our hotel suite he rented for the occassion, laughing at the luxury and leaving the do-not-disturb sigh up for three days straight.
No hurting eachother physically- none. The first three consecutive years of my life that I haven't taken a blow from my lovers or family.
So I hid my teeth to see where silly rules like this would lead.
And it led me here.
I still stare in disbelief.
We sleep side-by-side, naked and recklessly abandoned. I don't just curl up into his arms, I sprawl, legs and arms everywhere, blankets kicked down in the warm bedroom. I bare my pale, scrawny underbelly and the soft parts of my throat. He breathes evenly on the back of my neck and lets me wrap my fingers around his wrist so I can calculate his heart rate until I fall asleep. I wake screaming and crying in my sleep, and he shakes me awake and winds his arms around me like a shield until I fall asleep. I crawl over his body and lap at his skin until he shivers. He presses against me, and I am not disgusted, but in awe of his passion. His hands clench in the sheets, he breathes my name, and I watch, wide-eyed and giddy at my effect.
He is beautiful.
And with him, I am beautiful.
Does he really think there is another man like him out there?