The First Time Kind Of Sex


One, two, three.

I would exhale slowly each and every time you left the room. Even if it was only for a second I felt like it was the only time I could breathe normally. Whenever you were around my shoulders would strain and jump to my earlobes, my chest would tighten and every nerve would stand at attention.

I had to pause when you were near me. Had to hold my breath and count in repetition. It was a balance. If I breathed too loudly I knew you’d feel it on your skin and my secret would be out, and if I held it longer than necessary it would be obvious how desperately I wanted you to touch me.

I dreamt about you.

Too many nights there you’d be. Creeping, cruising, and crawling inside my psyche. Whispering, “I’m here,” even when no one asked.

I would wake up with fingers under my waistband, sweaty and anxious. I would text you with hands that needed to be washed, hoping, praying that you could come over and finally scratch the itch that I could not seem to reach. I would wait for your response with anticipation, still holding my breath for you.

And then one day, we both finally gave up the act. I exhaled and you gave me CPR.

We stopped pretending to be so full of self control that neither of us actually possessed, and we gave into everything both of us had been craving.

I’ve never been the first to a finish line but I was underneath you in record time. I’ve never thought so much about needing another person or wanting someone near me until you closed the gaps between our thighs and I saw stars. You pinned my wrists above my head and even as I pushed against the weight of you I knew there was nowhere I would rather be.

I could pretend to fight it, but we both knew I would kiss the bruises the next day.

We were desperate, needy, and hungry. I was drunk off of wine and even more intoxicated by the idea of exploring every inch of your skin with my tongue. I licked up every trace of you and was still dehydrated for something I never even knew I needed. I arched and move and bent and screamed and even when my voice was hoarse I still couldn’t get enough.

For months my lips were stained like blood.

Maybe it was merlot or maybe it was you. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Read about ‘The Last Time Kind Of Sex‘ here.

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