We started on Monday with morning sex before he left for work. I was in the habit of spending the night at his place (it was nicer than mine, albeit less homey — and I’m a writer so I don’t have to get up and get dressed at the crack of dawn like he does) and usually he lets me sleep and I talk to him dreamily while he gets ready, without really waking up. But today was the first day of Sex-On-His-Terms week and I woke up to his breath on my neck and his hand running up my leg, grazing the boy-cut panties I wore to bed — and running back down again. He was ready to start.
I opened my legs to him immediately. There was something freeing about the choice already being made. I was going to have sex with him, I was necessarily “in the mood” because I’d already decided I was going to be. For an overly-analytical maximizer like me, decisions are a lot of work, and knowing this one was already made felt relaxing and luxurious. Like morning sex. I made him 45 minutes late that day. He blamed it on a faulty alarm clock. Also See: I’m on my deathbed so I’m coming clean: Here’s the gruesome truth about what happened to my 1st wife
Discussion about this post