Unloved

He looked at me without any pretense. He shrugged one shoulder and asked, "So do you want to?"

On the same level I wanted to say no, but it felt so long and quietly moving my hand at night wile he slept wasn't really enough anymore.

I said, "OK."

He pulled down his pants, took off his shirt and heaped them into a pile. He didn't look at me. I knew he was already erect. It took the fun out of it. I wanted to feel like a sex goddess, but this robbed me of that.

I looked at his penis--cock-throbbing member. I didn't know what to call it anymore. He liked to call it his cock or a smaller version of himself never by a scientific name.

He kissed me a few times using his tongue aggressively. He wouldn't let me have my turn.

"You should use more tongue," he said.

I didn't object. I was getting what I wanted afterall. Relief. Sexual tension released. And I hated ramming my tongue down his throat which is what he wanted anyhow.

He fumbled with the condom. I waited my anticipation rising, but I knew what I was doing was wrong.

I wanted foreplay. I wanted him to caress me, use his tongue and explore in the dark like they do in those romance novels or the smut you find on the internet. He used to lead by a kiss and then flirt and then smirk and say, "You always want more." He'd kiss my neck, use his tongue, watch me strip, caress my nipples with his fingers before guiding them to his mouth. His rough and thick fingers would touch my clitoris--licking and sucking it gently, but sometimes he'd suck too hard so my hips would fall away and his lips would follow after.

His hands would touch where I couldn't and before he even thought to enter he'd let me suck him a bit. Explore him. I'd find a wrinkle that I didn't know was there before. I'd find new things about him. I liked letting his soft hair fall away through my fingers. I could smell his shampoo and the sharp smell of his sweat. I sometimes could taste it on my tongue. It tasted better than the soap and the deodorant he used. And he'd kiss me so it would shoot right down my spine, tingling to the ends of my toes and fingers. He let me kiss him properly. His breath would taste like whatever was the last thing he ate. Chocolate. The steak dinner we'd shared. Or something he'd had for lunch. But sometimes after he'd "captured" me he didn't think it was necessary. Other parts of the relationship filled in those parts. Or so he liked to belief. I'd sometimes bring it up, careful not to tramp his ideas of self-masculinity. But he'd ignore it or substitute it with sex games. Sex games were never foreplay. They were a poor excuse for not doing any real work. After that seduction by kisses wasn't "ncessary." But he could just use words like, "Do you want to?" That was the extent of his seduction. Seducing words like, "You're beautiful today," with a soft whisper in my ear so his breath played on my ear in the middle of a party where we couldn't do anything about it wasn't something he worked at. Instead Routine.

At ten o'clock pm. If I feel like it. If you don't feel like it, you have to wait a week. On Saturday. Be prompt. Be near me enough. I say, "Do you want to?" You must except or wait.

Routine. I hated it. The bane of sex life.

"OK," He said. He'd finally gotten the damned condom on. Took him long enough. He lay down on hs back on the bed. The only place where we ever did anything. I climbed onto the bed. I wasn't going to complain.

Besides, I'd been fighting the question in my head since we'd started having sex. Too many romance novels. I'd read too many Protestant ideas of romance. I'd seen too many chic flicks. I buried the question further into the back of my head.

I spread my legs. He inserted two fingers into my vagina. He nodded that the coast was clear. I struggled to keep my expression clear of resentment.

I put one leg over to his other side. I was on his stomach now. I slid back carefully. He bit his lip but didn't make any sound. I wish he'd at least sigh or moan a little. But he'd never do that. Besides when sex was interesting he talked too much for my liking anyhow.

He was inside me. So this was sexual intercourse. I wasn't moving, but it was still considered sex. Was this what the secret dirty magazines I'd snuck into my bedroom when I was twelve were talking about? The ones that showed the man's point of view only with women with impossibly large breasts? The ones that probably got plastic surgery to make their breasts triple D's and took an STD test every week? It served to teach me two important things. Men think that women like their holes filled. That's why they forget about the rest of the body. And there are three, maybe four fundamental things they want women to do to them.

Fuck. Suck. Lick. And if they feel like it, kiss.

But always its their "load" that goes everywhere and squirts a milky quart all over the sheets. And then they view these tanned men that are supposed to represent some fundamental ideal of what they could be. They also like oiled bodies and how it shines. But then women are guilty to think that penises can stick straight up in the air and are a "love muscle." They don't. They lay along their stomachs. They'd like to think they can stick straight up in the air when they are in the backs, but thinking about how a person has to move with those things they have to flex. And honestly, they don't throb, so a throbbing member is wrong. I've never seen a penis pulsate. They twitch.

But despite thinking about sex in the most scientific and detatched way possible, my body sighs with boderline relif. He's warm. This is what I want right now. I stile can't conjure up a good reason why. I rock my hips. His hands are flat on the bed. I won't get help from him. It would be better to get a dildo. A dildo that twitches rather than vibrates. Or I guess I could ask him to buy me one. I don't think he will care.

I can't help it. My thighs are burning a little and I can feel my body getting warmer. My nipples want to be touched, but the damned man is making me do all the work. My hands are steadying myself on the bed. I can't touch them. I wish I could suckle them myself. He always objects when I touch them myself, batting away my hands, but not substituting them. I guess it obscures his view. I feel like a porno magazine.

I can feel it welling inside of me. Finally something I can hold onto. I can concentrate on it. I want the feeling to rise.

He places his hands on my hips. That's his signal to stop. The condom is slipping. He slides it back into place. Fuck him. No, I don't mean not have sex, but I want to stop. Is he even enjoying this or does he like being my personal dildo? He must be enjoying it if I can feel that occaional twitch of him getting bigger inside of me. Fine I'll get my revenge.

Before he can say those annoying words, "Ok, go," I take him as fast as I can forcing that mask of neutrality into a pained surprise. I squeeze him hard. I don't care about my question anymore. If I'm going to do this I may get him to exhale sharply. The bastard inhales sharply, but bites his lip.

I close my eyes and rock hard. I don't care if he pops out. But his face is the same. I know it is. I can't concentrate on my own pleasure anymore. Tears are welling in my eyes. I feel miserable, but my body climaxes. It's a distant note in my head. Then it orgasms again. Damn it, when is he going to come so I can stop this sherrade?

He lifts my hips and clenches his teeth. I climb off. He walks to the bathroom naked to take off the condom. He didn't notice my tears. I fight them back. The women who have their men fall asleep after are lucky. At least he's there to admire and feel his warmth. I'm just a whore. A toy, something to satisfy his desire once a week. I'm here to fill his schedule for half an hour. I'm not a fuck, but something to occupy his time. My heart feels empty. I want him to prove to him that he does love me. I want to do it again. Just once more and get him to admit it. But I know it's not true. I've committed a sin. I can't be satisfied.

I feel unhappy. I'm in the bedroom alone. Should haves take over my mind. I hear the click of the TV being turned on. I wipe away my tears, get off the bed. I collect my clothes and join him.