Do not just grunt and hope for the best. Tell me it is good. Tell me where. Quiet men make me bored and over perform.
Tag: sex
Anyone will touch me in the dark. Fewer will hold my hand by the bus stop. That gap tells me more than those late texts.
Not showy messages. The are-you-home-safe ones after. Aftercare is a character test. Most good people pass the sex easily and then fail the morning kettle.
It was good. Too good, maybe. Next day he talks about timing and work stress. I know a retreat when I am watching one clearly.
If it is all serious I tense up fast. Filthy and funny is the mix. I come easier when I am not bloody posing about.
Not always, but often enough to notice the pattern. Body against body and the day shuts up. It works until I get fully dressed again.
I can do no-strings. I am genuinely good at it. Then someone makes tea properly and I invent a whole future they never once offered.
Drinks, sex, a vague plan that never lands on a calendar. I am done collecting almosts. Book a table or do not get me tonight.
Not in bed. In the head. They want the filthy girl until she asks what Saturday looks like. That is when they need space first.
It is a man who liked attention, not the Tuesday. Stop dressing it as complexity. If he cannot say what this is, it is nothing.