When One Man Turns Me On and Another Gets Me Off
When polyamory falls into a perfect balance
Andrew sleeps naked, and so I do too. Sleeping alone I get cold. I wear long-sleeved shirts, cotton pants, sometimes socks. I love sleeping naked with him, feeling his body heat warming me. He holds me close, his front to my back, his arm around me, pulling me into the space he makes. If he rolls to his back, I drape my arm or leg over his body.
If he gives even the slightest implication that he wants me — if his hand grazes my hip or low on my belly, if his hips move even the tiniest bit, or if I feel him grow hard against me, I am instantly wet.
No matter how much I try to ignore my sexual body and honor my tired one, I lie wide awake next to him most of the night, craving him.
When I can’t stand it anymore, I kiss him. He wakes and I kiss him again.
We make love at 4 am, for the second time since I arrived hours earlier. As before, I can’t get enough. As before, no matter what he does — going down on me, touching me, moving slowly inside me, moving fast — I’m not satisfied.
No matter what I do, how slowly and mindfully I breathe, how much I tell myself to relax, to feel, to let sensation in, I can’t reach orgasm.
