F*ck Me Out of My Funk

Sometimes you know what’s caused it. Sometimes you come home and find me watching horror movies. Sometimes you don’t. The only time I watch horror is when my brain shuts down; when I don’t want to do anything but sit, and feel numb.

You see that look upon my face, so you sit by me, and whisper dirty words into my ear. You tell me to sit still, to not move. Then you disappear off upstairs. I can’t hear what you’re doing, but my gut tells me what I soon find out to be true. 

When you come downstairs, I see the flash of purple. I hear the crinkle of the wrapper, and your face tells me all I need to know. You’re going to fuck me. You’re going to switch my brain back on and make it feel again, even if I say no. 

I resist slightly, I make a shrugging motion. ‘Maybe later,’ I’ll say looking away from your face. I know you’ll fuck me out of my funk, but it seems like so much effort. The intensity in your eyes says, ‘there will be no later’. 

You’ve known me for over three years, you know what I need by now. You know no amount of cookies or ice cream or even cuddles will work. My brain is stuck, and you need to fix it. 

A rip of the condom later, and you’re on top of me. Moving me, urging me to make space for you on our small sofa. There’s nothing gentle about the way we fuck. There’s no latent tenderness hiding in your eyes, there’s just lust, and discomfort – our couch wasn’t made for fucking on.

My brain starts to slowly click back into place, but it’s not fast enough for your liking. So you pull out the flash of purple and thrust it between us. The sensation tickles, and I try to tug it away, but before I can do so you grab my wrist and hold it down.

There is no running away from you. You have me pinned, and you can tell I like it. This isn’t a comfortable position to fuck in, but little by little you can see the numbness start to fade.

My hands start to roam, and sweat forms on your brow. A drop drips onto my cheek, and something inside of me snaps. 

Hands tighten, breaths come faster, and my hips still as yours work harder. 

Sometimes, I cry. I startle you as the rush of lust, and love I feel overwhelms me. Sometimes I kiss you with a ferocity that leaves you moaning. Sometimes, I simply submit to the feeling. I’m hedonistic when it comes to pleasure. I love the sensation, and I love feeling everything, especially when it comes to you. 

You kiss me gently as we lie in a jumbled mess of limbs on the sofa. We’re spent, sweaty, and satiated. 

I smile. 

‘Thanks.’