Making Love

It seems so long now since I wrote about the difference and similarities between Fucking and Making Love but a reader found the old prose and asked for more.

So, it’s three o’clock in the morning… on yet another night where we have sat until the small hours on opposite sides of the room with our heads buried in our computer screens.

Analysing data, fiddling with code and cussing. Solitary but so companionable.

We have been at it for almost two whole weeks, with just two days off for Christmas, but there is still so much to be done, so much to be learned, so much to be achieved if our future together is to be rosy.

And yet, in a few short hours he will be back on the train and I will be left in my empty flat… with just my computer for company.

Lying snuggled in his arms, I know that I cannot let him go without showing him how very much I love and want him – if only stuff wasn’t getting in the way all the time.

We’re both exhausted mentally and physically but those primal urges remain.

An instinctive attraction that refuses to go away, no matter how many years roll past.

I reach up my face and touch my lips to his.

Tentative… soft… nuzzles.

One moment my bottom lip on his, the next noses touching, lip on nose, nose on lip. Almost pecking oral caresses that culminate in an almost imperceptible suck of the tip of his exposed tongue.

The sharp intake of breath and I know I’ve still got it. The skill to surprise and seduce him in the stillness of a black night.

With smells and touch and taste, finding the lesser known erogenous zones and using them to build him into a swirl of passion.

But still my body lets me down.

I hate this hormonal thing, this age, this growing old, this feeling broken.

The need to adapt to accommodate the passion.

I reach for the Wand and it takes just a couple of minutes before the first one hits.

The introduction of his fingers produce a reciprocal gasp. I have always loved his digits and, even now, my dried up body will attempt to respond.

After a suitably polite number of orgasms, he snuggles in and positions himself behind my prone form before attempting entry.

Where once, he would be in like Flynn, now he has to wait for my body to adjust. Slipping in millimetre by millimetre as the flesh moistens before him.

These days there is a short stretch that thwarts us every time and if we are not prepared with lubricant to hand, we have to work until it will permit his passage, no matter how much my mind desires him.

And then there is bliss and joy and coming together in a hot, sweaty exhausted heap – the way I remember it. Energetic giving and receiving as our bodies join and meld and writhe.

But I understand now.

This is where our emotional desire has to accommodate the physicality of our bodies. Where we care for each other, not just for ourselves.

This is Making Love.