This is the part I have already told you. This is the part where I tell you about the early morning, about my inability to sleep as the sun streams its tiny slivers through the blinds. This is the part where I tell you that I awake every morning wanting you.
This is the part where I spread my bare legs open to greet my lust, where I tell you that I imagine my fingers as your tongue, faintly tracing the wet inner folds of my labia, teasing me ever so gently into fire.
But of course, that would be a lie.
I never wait in such moments. I wake up on fire already, wet, but still flip open the bottle of lube on the nightstand and go right for my clit, hard, needing. It is appalling, I know. I feel my cunt tense as if to shield myself from the intensity–a movement that is so effective as to stop myself from feeling so much, from even breathing.
So, I think of the tantric workbook, try to relax and open, open, an exercise that in theory seems so fucking obvious, but in practice is so difficult. I stop, open, and I am afraid. I want you.
I want you, not my own hands here. Want you, your fingers making the decisions, playing me as a surprise, as your gift to be unwrapped, as a gift you give back to me. I reach down and want to feel the top of your head, not my own soft, wet folds, not my own lust.. I can come, but don’t want to, want you, want more.