I like sex as much as the next woman – perhaps even a little bit more than the next woman. Unless “the next woman” is a freshly divorced cougar. In that case, I like sex as much as her. But seriously – I like it. I enjoy it. Not only the cumming, but the whole act accompanying it. And at the risk of sounding like a pathetic hopeless romantic, I like fucking the man I love. And I love knowing that I will be fucking the man I love for the rest of my life. Or his life. Whatever comes first. Or whoever cums first.
Having said that… there are a occasions in which in which I am seriously not in the mood. I just want to spread my legs open on my side of the bed and not have some dude trying to come inside me – much less trying to cum inside me. I like sleeping with my legs open and feeling the cool air caress my coochie. Like this:
Sometimes I like to cuddle, but I am very warm myself, and because it’s winter we use not one, not two but three thick covers, and always have the heater in max. And I hate sweating in my sleep. So I want my fiancé to kiss me good night and leave me the fuck alone.
But the jackass wants to fuck. Although his latest “catch phrase” is that he wants to make love to me. As if a simple play on words would make me get wetter. He begins by whispering romantic words in my ear, kissing it and my neck. He manages to get his hand in my pajamas (like I said, winter. Sleeping in the nude is just begging for a cold.) and find my stomach – my fat stomach. And the bastard caressed my fat! I, trying to maintain the family harmony, don’t say anything but fidget enough to make him move. Then he moves his hand to my boobs – men of the world, listen: when a girl is turned on, touching, grabbing, licking and biting her boobies is the most arousing thing ever. BUT, if said girl is not even mildly aroused, not even looking forward to being aroused, not even trying to pretend that she is aroused, it feels weird. Bad weird. Uncomfortable weird. So I fidget again, kiss him and bid him good night.
Then he acts out like a spoiled brat. He wants to fuck. And I never want to fuck, he says, never. This pisses me off, so I yank my pajama bottoms off, I yank my cotton panties off, and I open my legs for him. I tell him to go ahead, to get it over with quickly. He says no, all high up on his morality soapbox because he does not want to do me, he wants us both to do each other. And I place his hand on my desert-dry vagina and show him that I am seriously, seriously not in the mood. So he can slide on a condom, do me and get it over with, or he can count to 1,000 in his head until his dick falls.
He pretends to understand that, as a woman, I have varying cycles and that there is such a thing as not being in the mood. That maybe it was a long day, or maybe I am stressed out about something, or maybe I am sad or period-y or PMSing… so he sighs heavily and rolls over.
But then he can’t sleep. He can’t sleep because his dick is too hard and he can’t get it down. Again, I open my legs for him, unwillingly but also not in the mood to listen to him complain about his over-grown penis. He kisses me and says that I don’t need to do that, that he understands.
He rolls over to the left, I roll over the right. And as I am beginning to feel the sandman work on me, I get prodded in the back. It’s his dick, saying, “Open up, bitch.”
The good thing is, it only lasts 2 minutes… and I barely wake up.
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