Shame that sex isn’t enough on its own to make a relationship
A few years before meeting my SO, I met a gorgeous woman at a wedding. She was not only the most beautiful woman there, but she was eating me up with her eyes and body. I met her mother first. After about 5 minutes, her mother said, “I’m going to get my daughter, she’s going to love you.” Danger bells, right? And what mother ever successfully sets up her daughter?!
Much to my delight, she brought this most exquisite woman over. She was tall like me and wore a very clinging dark blue silk dress that plunged from her shoulders to her ankles in one piece. It was slit well up her thigh, and she knew how to stand. Her eyes were filled with laughter. Her skin was white like alabaster, and perfect, flawless, and she wore a perfume that soaked into every pore of me, that was uniquely her, and her signature. It smelled of tobacco and the earth, a walk in the forest, and just a little hint of something you couldn’t put your finger on, but which reminded me of honeysuckle. I say this because I took all this in as she approached, but as we began to speak, there wasn’t a cell in my body that wasn’t aware of her presence next to me.
I had flown in from Paris, it was impossibly glamourous, and was here, halfway around the world, knowing of the impossibility. But conversation was so easy and so fun, that I barely noticed that we were stuck to one another for most of the evening.
She was gentle, smiling, and laughter came to her lips often.
This was the rehearsal dinner. Bride and groom were caught up in the planning, giving me occasional moments when I could disappear. I slipped away from everything and on a whim, totally unplanned, walked into a piercing studio and had a ring inserted into my belly. It was a secret. I had never thought of it before. But as time passed I realise that it was a statement of intent. I wanted to enslave myself to a woman—the ring became a symbol of that.
After the dinner, she offered to take me back to my hotel, but on the way, suggested a stop at the ocean. She had changed into jeans. Under the moonlight, on one of the most dazzlingly glorious beaches in the world, we sat, gently touched each other, walked, listened to the pounding surf, and then just lay down holding each other, quiet, keeping one another warm.
When she brought me to my hotel without a word she parked, and joined me upstairs. In the soft light of pre-dawn flowing through the windows from outside we were naked and entwined on the bed. Touching, exploring, tasting. She spoke to me, and called me ‘baby’.
“My baby,” she breathed into my ear.
“Yes,” I intoned, “yes.” And she knew me. She spoke to me, to my inner me, to my id, and told her that it was safe. It was as if she could see past the million layers that we’re made of, especially the ones we erect to protect ourselves. By daylight I was spiritually open to her, responding to her touch, to her words like a puppet on a string…only I had independent mind and action, and used it to caress her, to worship her body with my lips.
We did not have “sex” that first evening. But there was no part of her that I didn’t linger over, didn’t caress, didn’t kiss. I found my way between her open legs and gave her pleasure with a joy and quiet comfort that I had not found before. She loved her breasts, and guided me to them, and asked me to drink of them, to suckle, to lick them, to be with them, to not be afraid of them, and as I did, and felt any self-conscious thoughts melt away, she caressed my head and held it to her, and called me baby. I could her heartbeat, and smell her skin, and taste her.
Every person makes love in different ways. Each time we find ourselves with someone and have that desire to connect, to serve, to please, we are changed by it. It is the will to tune. She was different. Natural in her nudity, comfort with the sensual, and so present in her mind, that she voiced the words floating in the air above us, teased, seduced, and loved on all planes at once.
Between a divine romp until daybreak, and our obligations towards the wedding, there was little time for her to go home and change. After she left it was only a few hours before I saw her again.
Casual, so well put together, I had fallen in love.
We spent every moment we could together until I had to leave, and then spoke for hours every day on the phone until I could come back, and indeed I did. For months, I flew half way around the world almost every other weekend to be able to see this divine woman.
Her love language was physical touch and words of affirmation. I had never been a toucher before, but she spoke my love language and that served to bring me to her, into her arms, and pour out streams of physical and verbal compliments. And so began a long-distance love which was impractical and impossible, but resulted in a formal engagement, and her move to Paris to be with me.
She fed my libido constantly, and other than now, there was no time in my life that I wasn’t more constantly aroused. Everywhere we went, everything we did, was an opportunity for her to tease and excite me, and she did.
At the five and dime, she would call out to me, looking over the display from her aisle to mine, “Oh baby Patrick,” she would say with such a sweet and seductive tone, and then hold up something she had found—a baby bottle, a pacifier, a pack of diapers. My cheeks would flush lest someone hear her, but my body would respond to her teasing with a desire to submit, to be with her, next to her, held close to her breasts.
She was the most delightful tease. And yes, it was my inner baby that she played with the most. When I was not with her, away on a business trip, I would always find a care package in my suitcase that she had snuck in before I left. It was usually a diaper, but sometimes something else, and when we talked on the phone, she would put me in that headspace, and we would be together in that way, with me affirming her, and she seducing me.
She loved to have sex. And of course, wearing a diaper is not conducive to all aspects of sexual contact. But she still liked to play. She might just entice me to the bedroom by calling out to me sweetly to get my attention, and then showing me what she had in her hand, and telling me to come with her…to get naked, to crawl onto the bed…but she would do the same, and be naked with me. And we would kiss, and I would caress her, and touch all of her, and please her with my lips, my hands. And she would whisper to me, encouraging me.
She loved to hold a pacifier, to wear it as if it were a ring. She would tease my lips with it, use it to guide me around her body, offering to me, but taking it away as I opened my mouth, and then guiding my mouth to what she wanted from it. I could crawl around her and serve her in this way for hours, until she shuddered and shook from her orgasms. Her body in ecstasy was like a towel that her own muscles were wringing dry…she would twist and writhe, and her muscles would become taut as she cried out. And after, things would calm down, and I could trace my fingers gently over her body, getting to know it over and over again.
I did not always climax myself, we did not always have penetrative sex, but I was fulfilled in ways that complete. Perhaps she would draw me to her breast and suckle me until I would fall asleep, cradled in her arms. Perhaps she would ask me to draw her a bath, and I would light candles and fill our tub, and then bathe her. When and how and how often I was to orgasm was her choice. I knew nothing of chastity and in those days, was not even aware of the concept, but we practised it. My release was hers to dictate, and it was a relief to never have to think about it. To never have to think about myself or what I needed. To only think about her, her body, and her joy. To live in this way offered far more release than any life of personal choice.
My surrender to her was my freedom.
Unfortunately it didn’t last, but it sure was fun while it did.