Random Writings and Photos

Random thoughts and/or photos


Posted by Ó Maolchathaigh on November 9, 2015

Two Lips

Two Lips

I like kissing. I like the feel of silky skin on my lips, and of moist lips buried in my lips. I like the give and play of the lips, hard and yet soft at the same time. When you’re in lust with someone, kissing is the most delicious and delirious thing you can do. Well, it is, until you factor sex in. Kissing stimulates blood flow throughout one’s body: the skin is sensitive all over, blood  feeds the skin. Blood flows to the genitals as well, and the whole body participates in the arousal of sensual pleasure. Still, for me, even with skin to skin and genital to genital, I still like to continue kissing. Near orgasm, I can lose track of my lips, but as that height is reached, I want to kiss. And oral sex before the genital sex just increases that juxtaposition of mouth and groin, of pleasure above and below. Passion. That’s what it’s all about. Passion can supercede reason, as least temporarily. There is a state of bliss we reach when we have sexual congress. It is exquisite.
Only love, real love, can surpass it, but the two of them together? It is transcendent.

However, not all sex is like that. Even when some relationships start that way, or become that way over time, it can fade, can slow, can cool, until it is a simulation of passion. There is still the quickening of pulse, and usually an orgasm, but sex can become like kissing a distant relative. Dry lips, tightly drawn together. No give. No take.

Sex is like a kiss. If the kissing is perfunctory, passionless, then the sex will be too.

When I was young, all sex was wonderful, exciting, new and intense. After many relationships, both short and long, I married. She was twice-divorced. She had two kids by her first husband. The sex was great, but not as often as I would have liked. Over time, while it was always wonderful, I wanted more passion. Sometimes I looked elsewhere, but except for once, when our neighbors brought their swapping partners over, I had never had sex outside the marriage. It was on the occasion of a birthday party for me.

My wife thought it would be good for us, so she pushed me, and I mean literally, into the arms of this swapper. She was willing, and I was eager. It was so odd to have sex in the same bed my wife and I slept in every night. That, however, was the least odd thing. The east wall of the bedroom butted against the back porch. My wife went out there, and I could hear her laughing and talking. She wasn’t interested in the woman’s husband (he was really unattractive anyway). She had just set me up, hoping I’d be stimulated. And, I was. This woman was a stranger to me, but sweet, and open, and we fucked like rabbits. The bed rocked. The wall shook. I knew my wife could hear me. I was momentarily distracted by that thought, but I wasn’t doing anything secretive, nothing she hadn’t actually encouraged me to do, so I relaxed, and let my mind go. I suspended all reason and concentrated on pleasure, on just the two of us in that room.

There wasn’t much kissing, not that I can remember.

After the couple left, my wife wanted to have sex. I was surprised, but she seemed to think it would be better. My neighbors had been telling her that swapping was good for couples, that it brought new excitement, and reinvigoration to a marriage. I don’t know. I never noticed a difference after that. That night, I was glad that I’d only had the one bout of sex with the stranger. It had been wild and intense, but I knew then I had better satisfy my wife too. I think I did. I know I was aroused. She had a taut body, and deep dark eyes and night-black hair, Her face was lovely, and her lips were rich, and I loved her. We kissed, and we had sex. We never repeated the swapping experience. The couple passed word through our neighbors to see if we wanted to get together again, but my wife and I decided mutually that, no, we didn’t want to see them again. It has been an interesting experiment, but that was all. Eventually, over time, the marriage seemed to deteriorate into arguments, arguments that were escalating in intensity. That last argument ended with my wife asking for a separation, to which I responded that I’d just as soon skip to the divorce. I researched divorce law at the University law library, wrote up an agreement, had it notarized together, and sent it to a judge. Divorce granted. Marriage over. Actually we got together many months later for dinner, and then ended up seeing each other again for nearly a year. I suppose we hadn’t been ready for divorce just yet. I tried to joke once that we were happily divorced, but that just bothered my ex-wife terribly. I started dating someone else. In time, we argued again, and it was over.

The woman I’d been seeing wanted romance and love, and I wasn’t interested in that. It took a while to get over the loss of my wife. I had really loved her. After about a year, I met someone else, a divorcée, again. She was passionate about many things, especially her two kids, and art. We dated for some time, and kissing was a regular part of saying goodnight after a night of hot dancing, drinking, and talking into the wee hours. The kissing increased in intensity until one night we slipped into bed together. It was strange at first. Her daughter was asleep in her mother’s bed, we so climbed into hers. I was nervous and worried about the young daughter waking up and coming back to her room, and I really couldn’t relax. I’d had seven years of sex with my ex-wife, and it was also hard to get that off my mind, and out of my system. I liked this woman a lot, and I had been hoping for sex, but somehow I wasn’t ready.

However, we tried again after our next date, and both of her children were spending the night with their dad. We came home from a passionate night of drinking and salsa dancing, and there was no question we were going to end up in bed. It was wonderful. I hadn’t realized just how much sexual tension had been building up in me, but all that deep kissing had been turning me on after every date and I’d been going home frustrated.  She’d been divorced eight years, and had dated a little, but she was as lonely and horny as I was.

We “dated” for four years, if that is the right word. We had a pattern: Thursday night dancing, until midnight or 1 a.m. Then home to her house for talk and sex. The kids spent Thursday nights with their dad. Actually they also spent every other weekend with their dad too, so we went out to dinner or dancing on Saturday nights after awhile, and then Sundays we might still be together, and I’d spend the night even after the kids came home. After three years, we married. It was something she’d sworn to never do again, so we crafted this plan that it was so I could put her on my medical, dental, and vision insurance, since she had none. We could have applied for the insurance as domestic partners, but since we didn’t live together, we would have had to pretend we did, and produce three forms of documentation that I lived there. I decided to ask her to marry me instead, and she agreed.

We had our first argument after that, while on vacation in Costa Rica. We had a great time there, and I can’t recall why we argued, but we argued in public and people were backing away from us. We made up, and went back to kissing passionately, and sex as often as we saw each other. It was good. We continued dancing, and kissing, and often kissing while dancing, and it was the kind of passionate kissing I like, the kind I began this little story about. From the time we met to the time we divorced a period of fourteen years passed – new record for both of us. But it ended, and fairly suddenly. The arguments had been infrequent and not very heated, and seemingly forgotten. But the passion dwindled. The sex dwindled to once a week at best almost as soon as we began living together. I once asked her why that was, and she answered that it had been “dating” sex we had been having. That was over. She seemed serious about that. I guess she was, because I noticed the kissing was over. She would peck me on the cheek before bed, like I was distant relative. No more passionate mouth to mouth or kissing all over. Actually I liked kissing her all over, but there was no reciprocity. She no longer wanted to kiss me, and the sex seemed very perfunctory. In fact, she often urged me to get it over with quickly, or just pushed me away. Sometimes, when I put my arm around her while we were in bed, she’d push me away violently.
“Get off me,” she sometimes said, and there was no love in that voice. The arguments increased.

So, we divorced.

I was pretty depressed about that. I don’t like change. I had finally become monogamous, and liked it. Now I was on my own, and I missed the comfort of sharing a bed, and even the perfunctory sex was better than no sex at all. I fell in love with a co-worker, but she was much younger than me, and had only wanted a casual friendship, confined entirely to work lunches. There would be no passion there for me, and in fact, she tired of me and moved on, avoiding me, especially after my divorce, when I finally asked her to meet me to watch a movie we’d both intended to see. She said that was inappropriate, and I was crushed. Following on the heels of my divorce, I felt so despondent I wished I’d die.

I went into and stayed in a deep depression. I left my job; took an early retirement. Spent my time alone, in a rented house. Rarely went out, so I didn’t meet anyone. Didn’t care. I was painfully lonely, and dispassionate about life. No longer cared about anything. Death would have been better, it seemed. I tried to date, but my heart wasn’t in it. Five years after my divorce I hadn’t had any sex, any passion, and no kissing.

But that would change. Out of the blue I met someone one night. I had been meeting people, but never felt compelled to make a move. Suddenly, I wanted this woman, and I knew I had to make  it happen. I gave her a card with my number and email, but she insisted on giving me her number. I called her. We went for a motorcycle benefit ride, a toys-for-homeless-kids run. After the ride we went back to my place. I built a nice fire (it was December), and made a fiery sausage, black-bean chile. She stayed the night. It turned out she is a passionate woman, and she loves to kiss, among other things.

She’s gone now, but she turned my life around. I needed passion in my life and had thought I’d never experience it again. I was dead wrong. I am very much alive.

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