We met. Once. We stretched together. I allowed myself to imagine – and I think you, too, allowed yourself to imagine – my cock in your mouth. My mouth on your cunt. My tongue on your clit.
I asked you to come for me. You agreed. That evening, you said, you would.
But then, you didn’t. As the evening progressed, you texted. “I haven’t been in the mood sorry.”
To which I responded, laconically, unsympathetically, “Hmm.”
I should have responded better. I should have written, “I’m sorry to hear that – please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help reverse that situation. And, failing that, perhaps we might revisit tomorrow, if your mood returns (fingers crossed!).”
That’s what I should have written. But I didn’t write that. I wrote, instead, “Hmm.”
And that brought us to a screeching halt. I didn’t hear from you.
Some days later, I gently suggested we start again. You called me “grumpy,” and said you are “very uninterested in continuing.”
I’ve been thinking about what transpired, about why I responded so… churlishly…. And I think it’s straightforward enough, informed both by my ardor (my hunger for you), and by my vulnerability.
I wanted, I wanted to imagine, you wanting to come for me. Not coming for me because you were (or weren’t) in the mood, but because the idea of coming for me was, in and of itself, exciting. Which doesn’t preclude the possibility of real life getting in the way, of the time simply not being right. But your text – with the apology in the form of a single, final word, not even dignified by a separation by punctuation and/or capitalization from the rest of the text – it left me under the impression (probably correct, and certainly reasonable, fair) that you weren’t all that… excited… about coming for me.
Fair enough. Our relationship was, is, new enough that I hadn’t built up much anticipation or desire. I didn’t have any right or reason to imagine anything other than where you were at that particular moment.
But.
I think I took that text – reading more into it than it merited? maybe – as evidence of a sort of distant, cold, curiosity on your part, as distinct from a warmer, wetter, hunger. If I were to script the text you might have written that night, it would have been something like – “Bummer! I’m not feeling it. Which is too bad, because I really want(ed) to come for you. I hope I’ll be feeling it soon, and hope you’ll want me to come for you tomorrow, or the day after, if possible. I’m sorry, and disappointed!”
That would’ve elicited a much more appreciative, kind, response from me.
But none of this is to criticize you. You behaved utterly appropriately, both in general, and in particular, at that moment in our (barely-there) relationship.
We hadn’t even come close to the point where I could, gently, respectfully, caringly, coach you on how to communicate with me in ways that feel better. And I just leaped into churlish, petulant, denied, victim mode. Unappealing. I’m sorry.
It was a reflection of where I was in my mood at the time, and it was not respectful, reflective, kind, or considerate.
I’m sorry.
If you are game to revisit – stretching, coming, or both – let me know. I would like that. If not, I understand, and I apologize.
N.
Postscript:
That escalated fast. Within two hours of my pressing “send” on the above, Ashley and I had plans. And, she had come for me. And, for you! Listen here:
I can’t fucking wait to have all that plus her thighs on my ears.
