Love Is Like Drowning

Love...

Chapter 1: The Foreplay

I can still smell him on my fingertips and taste the salt of his seed on my lips, his scent clinging to me even as she sits next to us, completely unaware of our transgression. The scent is like the sick, decaying smell of a late stage cancer patient, semi-sweet and bitter all at once. This should be where the guilt begins to sink in, to latch on and take hold of some still human inner corner of my mind that cares and feels like normal people care and feel. But I feel nothing. I sit and smile and chat and claim to be her trustworthy best friend with lying lips that were, only moments before, wrapped around her boyfriends cock as he throbbed and spilled his pleasure into the warmth of my mouth.

I was instructed to write three pages daily for practice in my creative writing course and to remember that art imitates life. That writing about experiences can breath a soul into a piece. If that is true, why do I still feel so soulless even after my pen soaks its ink into these pages?

Why is life such an ironic and dramatic display? We, as humans, are always a moment too soon or too late. We are always falling for the wrong ones, or the right ones in the wrong way. We are in the wrong place at the wrong time or the right place at the wrong time. We are constantly fucking up but coming back to try again and again and again. And isn't that the definition of insanity? To keep going through the same tired, over done motions again and again while expecting different results? And yet we hold on to that precious glimmer of hope, that light at the end of our tunnel.

I have loved him for longer than even I am willing to admit, not that I would ever admit to loving him at all. He is blind to it, which only makes our macabre act even darker. The sex is bound to happen eventually. We have done everything but, already. Will that consummation change anything or are we destined to dance in life's twisted talentless show? Like actors who have forgotten their lines or dancers who don't quite remember the steps.

I have tried to forget my feelings, for everyone's sake, but ignoring the passionate screaming of every single cell within your body is like trying to float with weights on. My emotions are just as anchored to me, puling me eternally down into the murky depths of confused desire and love. When will I realize the folly of my youth? Will it be after I have turned old and gray and began to forget the things I once held dear, that I once fervently clung to and stood for? Or is it already beginning to manifest at the age of 25? The feeling of dread I can't quite shake or the sweat that threatens to break out at the nape of my neck when she arrives right after he and I have been together?

As I begin to touch myself it is almost as though I can feel him again, shuddering against me with desire, his breath coming out in warm hisses and moans of ecstasy. I can almost smell his arousal and hear the gruffness of his voice, thick with need, as he warns me of his orgasm and we are pulled ever closer to it.

People talk about the sensation of falling in love. I think it is more like drowning. You claw and fight your way back to the surface, futilely, all the while your lungs burn and ache with need. In a moment of desperation you will latch on and drag anyone close-by down with you. Yes, love is exactly like drowning.

Chapter 2: The Build-up

Our lips fit perfectly together. I think that is what makes every kiss euphoric and addictive, from the quick semi-sweet pecks to the impassioned ones, full of a deep and primal longing. I can feel his lips pressed against mine now, even as I am sitting by the light of a computer screen, transcribing our interactions. The gentle brush of skin against skin, even while the rest of our flesh is a blaze of passion, a funeral pyre.

Our last meeting was a fevered hour in a steamy car, our bodies becoming drenched in sweat. Not the glistening perspiration they talk about in erotic novels or the sprayed on water you see in pornographic films. This was real and human, sweat beading at our temples, pressing our hair to our necks and slipping down our bodies, our faces and our flesh a frenzied blush of red.

Some part of me loves these hot, almost uncomfortable moments most of all. When he kisses me like he is dying and tells me he has never been given head or a hand-job better than me. These all-too-brief moments where I feel like I am the antidote to some rare ailment he is tormented by.

He guides my head to his cock and thrusts into my mouth, whimpering and shaking as my lips glide wetly down his shaft. It is intoxicating; this blur of pleasure and pure eroticism. He never gets as rough with me as I would like but I feel that will come with time and familiarity. He is still hesitant to thrust into my throat or pull my hair or hold my head down as I gag around him.

His legs shake and the tremors move up his entire body until he is clawing at my back with an aching need. His desire is palpable as I moan around his pulsing cock, letting it pop out of my mouth, immediately replacing my lips with my hand.

"Are you ready to give in already and just fuck me like we both know you want to?"

"Not yet..." He manages between pleasured gasps.

"You sure about that?" I focus my attention on the overly sensitive head of his penis.

"No..." he whimpers, leaning forward to capture my taunting lips with his.

His hands begin to wander down my body and between my thighs, to the wet warmth of my core.

"No sir." I tease, swatting his hand away playfully. "You don't get that until your cock is buried inside of it." I grin and kiss down his neck and body, inhaling the scent of his arousal before returning my lips to his hard cock.

He finally begins to thrust wildly into my mouth, begging me not to stop as his orgasm approaches. I can feel him stiffen right before his seed sprays across my tongue and throat and I swallow every drop.

I continue to suck, though more gently now, cleaning him entirely before I clean my own fingers of any remaining drops because I know it drives him crazy.

He especially loves it when I clean my own juices from my fingers; he has never been with anyone willing to. He loves to kiss me after he has come in my mouth or after I've licked my fingers clean of our combined juices. I think it is incredibly hot that he is willing to taste himself on my lips.

Since I am teasing him until the actual intercourse, I spread my legs as he begins to drive away from the dark parking lot we chose for tonight's activities. I dip two fingers into my drenched folds and start playing with myself, moaning loudly as I do so. It is difficult for him to focus on driving when all he wants is to touch me and experience my pleasure with me.

I love this exhilarating feeling of making him hard without touching him and of pleasuring myself while he watches me writhe. It is even more thrilling to know she is so close, probably still sleeping as we drive, less than a mile away, the warm summer air of the country blowing through the open windows and cooling our sticky flesh. We look like two people who have just had sex in a hot car.

I lean over and kiss him again before whispering against his red, pouty mouth. "Tell me to come for you."

He kisses my swollen lips once more, making me wait before he nearly snarls "Come for me."

My orgasm washes over me like frenzied waves crashing against rocks on the shore, shredding themselves against their points. My legs are shaking and slipping from the dashboard as I nearly curl in on myself in pleasure.

"Thanks." I wink as I clean my fingers, kissing him on the jaw before I start cleaning up.

As we pull into the subdivision he stops in the middle of the road and demands one final kiss, actually wrapping his hands in my sweat-soaked hair. "You are an amazing kisser." He smiles against my lips before he starts driving again.

'Our lips just fit perfectly together...' I think to myself as we pull into his driveway.