Dear My Love

My love,

I know you better than I know myself, I forget where your skin ends and mine begins. Which is why I struggled to think of what to get you for our anniversary: two years married, five years and three months since I moved in, five years, three months, and two weeks since we first hooked up and a life without you became impossible. 

We didn’t meet on a dating app, we met a million years ago when the stars first exploded into existence. That was the first time you made me cum, one soul ripped apart into two people. But yes, if we’re being literal, in this lifetime we met on Hinge.

I told you this later, how I scrolled through your profile relentlessly, willing myself to smell you through my cracked screen. We must’ve looked ridiculous on our first date, two baby deers in heat. Your hair was shorter than it is now, frayed and catched around your ears. You had a ring on every finger, even the wedding one. 

Maybe your hands were the first thing I fell in love with, veiny and long and thin. An inarticulable masculinity that made my pussy ache. It was right that those perfect hands were wrapped in all that silver. 

It is right that three some odd years later I was able to slide the right kind of ring on that left finger. It gave me as much pleasure as all the times you slid that finger inside me—my mouth, my asshole, my pussy that cries for only you. 

On our first date you ordered us both gin and tonics and we laughed about how many straight people were in that club. You walked through the room, the Red Sea parting the men who thought they were Moses. They made way for you, your gait, your keys that bounced against your pelvis as you moved. I’d never wanted to be hung on something so bad. 

I was glad we were there, the music loud and the lighting dim. I didn’t know how to speak to you baby, I was scared I would drool. But I knew how to dance with you. How to let the animals of our bodies do what they wanted to do. 

We spoke to each other in that primal language first. As I swayed, I cupped my breasts then slid my hands down the sides of my torso and hips. You smiled slightly, the first you’d ever smiled at me. Until then you were all stone and smoldering. That butch face that could’ve killed me. 

You grabbed my waist, I remember the skirt I was wearing, no idea where it is now. Remember that skirt baby? How it clung to me on all sides but lifted so easily? It was always easier to get me undressed than it was to take off all your chains and rings and belts and sports bras. But I relished the task. I still do. 

You pulled me close, said, “can I?” And kissed me. You smiled into my mouth, tasting like tequila and lime and man and woman. Tasting like tongue, like you. I couldn’t keep dancing while you kissed me, those devastating hands around my back, then around my ass. The perfect pressure of your fingers, molding my skin. 

Your hands gripped me hard, your rings leaving indents and maybe a couple bruises. Let me fall back into that feeling forever.

I stood there in the middle of the dance floor, so wet I thought you might’ve smelled it. Scared it would leak down my leg. We were only one drink and two songs in when we couldn’t take it anymore—remember that? It felt like my husband had come home from war, after spending months in a lonely bed.

We snuck into the bathroom, the two of us. Pretending to be two best girl friends touching up each other's makeup. I locked the door to the single stall. You hiked up that tiny skirt and pushed me up against the door. 

Our mouths became a tight glove on a perfect hand. Your pelvis protruded into the space between my legs, my mind darted to worry that my wetness would leave a spot on the front of your pants, and then darted back to your tongue in my mouth. 

Then came the hard angry knock on the door. You threw your head back in a frustrated laugh, whispering something under your breath like “hold your fucking piss.” 

I leaned my forehead on your collarbone, then bit your neck. You grabbed me by the jaw and kissed me again. The knock came back, angrier. Fuck I needed you so bad, I didn’t know how I could go back out there. You rolled your eyes, grabbed my hand and we walked out of the stall like two caught teenagers. 

It wasn’t until I was out of there, looking up at the irritated bouncer, that I realized the door of the bathroom was frosted glass. The shadow of my ass pressed against it was on full display for the entire club. Thank God you took me home right then. I didn’t want to pretend I needed any more convincing. 

We snuck into your apartment, a three story walk up with two roommates. I walked in front of you up the stairs, aware that you could see my panties from that angle. I tried to regulate my breathing. Your room was sparse but clean, the Patti Smith poster and the stained glass lamp, a bookshelf with an impressive collection. That was all I could take in before you were over me. On your bed, hungry. 

You spread my knees apart and kneeled over me, eyeing me with bewildered pleasure before taking off my tank top. I guess you hadn’t noticed between stolen glances that my nipples were pierced. I could feel you pulsing with desire. I witnessed you witnessing me. You, in your undershirt, a thin veil between me and your perfect body. 

You sucked my nipples, played with the piercings. Then you moved lower and my heart raced. My neck and chest reddened, blood seemed desperate to escape from the rising heat in my body. You spread my knees apart and licked the crevice between my thigh and lips. I lurched in pleasure and moaned in spite of myself. You laughed at your effect on me. 

You sucked on both my thighs, leaving bruises I wouldn’t stop staring at until they faded and I came back for more. You held up my leg and licked the back of my knee.

“Please” I whispered, again in spite of myself. You’d reduced me to a puddly whining version of myself that I had never been before. No composure, no manners. The allure of the mysterious cool femme I had been attempting to cultivate was ripped off of me just like my soaked panties. 

“What?” You asked, grinning up at me.

I’d been caught. “Please,” I repeated. The genuine yearning in my voice was more than you could handle. 

“Good, good,” you cooed as you licked my pussy softly for the first of a thousand times. 

Before you, I had always been aware of the mechanics during sex. Now they’re licking the hood, now they’re spelling their name, now they’re introducing a finger. But the way you made love to me was so encompassing, so wholly pleasurable that I could not focus on anything besides the shapes and colors that your tongue was drawing across my mind, the universes you were taking me through. 

You moaned your encouragement as the sounds I made grew higher in pitch and succession, “oh fuck” I whined. You hadn’t been inside of me and I wanted you so bad. Not because I thought anything could give me more pleasure than I was experiencing right now, but because I thought maybe if you were inside me you could never leave. That this moment couldn’t be a dream too good to be true. That I could keep those hot fingers with me for the rest of my life, too good to let go. 

“Come for me, good job” you said as I bucked and cried out against your tongue. 

With my body on fire you flipped me over, arching my back. You grabbed my hair and pressed my head onto your mattress, the mattress that smelled like you all over and made my pussy throb. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t say something stupid, like I love you. I stayed like that. You didn’t have to tell me not to move. I stayed with my head on the mattress and my ass arched towards the ceiling. 

I watched you in the dim warm lighting tighten a strap-on around your waist. You walked behind me and leaned over my shivering body, you moved my hair out of the way. Kissed my neck. You grabbed my left hand and placed it under my body, on my clit. Then you examined my ass with your hands holding it open. You licked me from the pussy to my ass and bit my ass cheek, then you slid your cock in me.  

You fucked me so good, baby. You made me feel how bad you wanted me, how good you thought I looked, dancing on you. As if you knew me, as if we’d done this a million times before, you filled me perfectly. You allowed me access to a perfect bliss I’d never known before, squeezing the sides of my ass and my waist hard as you pounded your desire into me so that I couldn’t forget it, ever. 

I came on your cock, hard and slow. A symphony swelling to a crescendo. I felt your bed flooding and realized I was squirting and crying and drooling. Instinctively you began to fuck slower whispering that I’d done such a good job. The violins shuddered their remaining notes and we collapsed into each other’s arms. 

Of course that was not the end, we’re lesbians after all. 

We kissed and you brought me water and then you fucked me again and again and again. 

We’ve since agreed that that was the night we fell in love. Our bodies spoke to each other, they said oh, you again, I missed you so much. 

It took two months for you to let me go down on you. I didn’t push it, I didn’t ask, just told you I’d want to if you wanted me to. Two months of fucking whenever we could, on lunch breaks, after dinner, between episodes, in the car, in the coffee shop restroom. I could tell when you were coming from topping me. Usually when I was riding your face. 

I knew your moans as well as my own at that point, the pulse of your tongue as your own cunt filled with cum. But I wanted to taste it. 

That week, our sex had shifted. You weren’t holding back how much you loved me when you fucked me anymore. You whispered it to me, you had taken to fingering me in your arms so you could hold our faces close while I came. 

One day you were holding me like that, your arm around me, your ringed hand massaging my clit while you looked me in the eyes. I pouted and whined how good it felt. You looked so hot, stern and smoldering, watching how good you were making me feel. 

Then you grabbed my hand and placed it on your boxers. Feeling you there for the first time, your clit hard and your boxers damp, I came immediately. It was almost embarrassing. 

Your moans are throatier than mine, more masculine. You suck in through your teeth while I lick you and I’m floored by my own arousal. 

I move down your body with pride and ease. A pride that you’ve opened to me in this vulnerable and sacred way. A pride that you chose me for this. 

I ran my fingers through your bush and breathed you in. Your scent drove me wild and called me home. I licked you slowly and softly. That’s all it took. I felt your clit getting harder and harder, I ran my tongue around your hole to test the wetness. You tasted so good. 

I kissed and sucked and prayed that this moment would never end, that my mouth could be tethered to you forever, the sounds of your heavy breathing and grunting making me ache. 

Then I understood. 

The room tilted and my nipples sang against your sheets. I was coming from the sheer pleasure of tasting you. And you were coming too. There is nothing in this world, nothing that money could buy, that is anything like our sex. I still don’t know what to get you for our anniversary, so I’m hoping this will do for now.